


The Cat and the Fox

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Drugs, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, See chapter end notes for individual warnings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't sure how it happens. Is he sleepwalking? Does someone bring him here? Or is this some kind of recurring dream?</p><p>The setting is always the same. The people never talk to him. Then one day he meets a fox, and together they begin to unravel the mystery of the Masquerade.</p><p>John only hopes the fox is clever enough to free them of the nightmare before they both wind up dead.</p><p>Don't eat the cheese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!
> 
> Before you begin reading, please note: Trigger warnings will occasionally apply throughout this fic. Please see each chapter's End Notes for any that apply. But I will say right now, that I don't personally consider there to be anything really majorly triggering in this story. The warnings are mostly for those who may be of a more sensitive disposition. Anything else relevant is covered in the main tags.
> 
> That said: Enjoy the ball!

It didn’t begin like this. John doesn’t dream of exotic things. Not usually. His imagination is far more mundane than that. Most of his dreams are  memories and experiences that he relives from an out-of-body perspective. Whereas most normal people might lie awake at night with their _what if_ s and their _if only_ s circling around and around in their thoughts, for John this happens in his dreams. He dreams of the war, and of the friends he lost there. He dreams of childhood fights with his sister. And once, he even dreamt of the time he lost the phone number of the gorgeous lady he’d been chatting up all night at a bar, because some light-fingered pillock had pinched his wallet on the way home.

He doesn’t dream about strange beasts and foreign lands he’s never stepped foot in.

But some time between when his head hit the pillow and now, something changed in the air of his flat, warping the imagery into a strange juxtaposition of East and West. It teases at the edge of his consciousness; a dark, spicy aroma that he can’t quite describe to himself. Something distinctly Oriental, whatever that means— like the inside of a Chinese restaurant, or the general atmosphere of London’s Soho district. It paints over his lingering dream in broad strokes, hanging paper lanterns across grey skies, and crumpling double-decker buses into the shape of goggle-eyed dragons that dance along the roads, undulating to the quiet rhythm of a string quartet.

Wait… What? There’s music now, too? …Oh.

_Here I am again, then._

Peeling open his eyes, John isn’t surprised to find himself somewhere very different. 'Here' is definitely _not_ his flat. Everything is tinted in soft, shifting hues of orange and red. It’s warm here too, like dozing in front of a crackling fireplace. Cosy. It feels very intimate. Or it might do, under different circumstances. If he was here willingly, perhaps, with that girl whose number he’d lost before.

But it’s never his choice to come here. He just seems to wake up here sometimes, with no recollection of how it happened.

His eyes adjust after a few minutes, details sharpening into focus. He’s sprawled across a velvety sofa, his head propped against the plush armrest in an awkward position. His neck aches in protest when he shifts. This is always where he finds himself, as if he’d plopped himself down for a quick sit and fallen asleep by accident, slumping over like a sack of potatoes. That, or someone else dumped him here while he slept. And realistically, it’s probably the latter.

 _That’s_ not a creepy thought at all.

Groggily, he sits up and moves to rub the sleep from his eyes, but his hand grazes the edge of something foreign near his face. There’s a moment of confusion, but then he remembers this part of it, too.

He reaches with a cautious hand and feels it there, splayed over his nose and across his eyes: a solid, bulky mask, its surface speckled and rough against his fingertips, but soft-edged, as if lined with fur or feathers. And on the inside, he can feel the press of brushed metal and smooth plastic against his sun-worn skin. There are flecks of glitter clinging to his fingers when he pulls them away, sparkling at him in the dim light when he twists his hand.

The weight and sturdiness of the mask’s face suggest a porcelain make. But its arms, reaching around the back of his skull and locking together there, are definitely metal. It’s uncomfortably tight. He fumbles around the back at the clasp for a few minutes, before giving up with a frustrated sigh. Not like he really expected it to come loose this time; it never does. But he wishes it at least didn't dig into his skin so much.

He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like this if he had any choice in the matter.

He scans the room as best he can through the cut oval eyeholes. It’s a dark place, but quite enormous. A sort of ballroom, the likes of which you’d find inside royal palaces or the homes of Hollywood actors, with a floor of reflective, polished marble, and a high ceiling decorated with silk drapes of gold and black that hang down in great swoops. They surround a grand crystal chandelier, set with burning white candles. More elegant candelabras line the walls on either side of the hall, their gentle flames multiplied inside a series of ornately framed mirrors.

Strings of little white and yellow LEDs wrap themselves over wide archways that lead off from the sides and back of the hall, and hundreds more of them dangle overhead, forming a forest of twinkling vines spanning across the ceiling from end to end. And as if that wasn’t impressive enough for whoever designed this place, angelic sculptures of cut glass stand guard in strategic locations to capture all the various little light sources and break them apart, scattering them across the floor like handfuls of diamonds.

The overall effect is stunning. It’s like someone bottled up an arm of the galaxy and released it into the room; John has never seen anything quite like it before. Then again, he doesn’t usually find himself in places like this. Up until recently, that is.

Above the central archway hangs a huge, pearly-faced clock. Its slender black arms reach for the third hour; morning or afternoon, John has no way of telling for sure, but it’s probably morning. He doesn’t tend to get a lot of sleep on the nights he finds himself here. Built into the opposite wall is a pair of sturdy metal double-doors, plain and windowless. There are no handles on them, and no gaps between the hinges or along the floor. They look airtight. It’s the only exit out of here but it’s locked right now. John knows this, because eventually the doors will buzz and open of their own accord. John leaves when the big doors _let him_ leave, and not a moment sooner— he’s tried.

There are no windows in this hall, nor in any of the adjacent hallways or the rooms leading from them. No natural light enters the structure, giving him no objective indicator of the passage of time. His watch is always removed, which is usually the only thing he’s wearing besides the underwear he goes to bed in. There’s just the big clock on the wall, and that’s all he gets. But at least it’s something.

Unsettlingly, John is not alone here. Above an ever-present musical symphony (whose exact source he’s never quite been able to pinpoint) there are the distinct sounds of human activity. And if he peers into the dark corners, he can see them lurking there; groups of strange people, all hidden behind fancy masks just like his own.

They’re dressed much the same as him. Which is to say, not at all appropriately for such a grand venue. They look like they’ve been plucked straight from their beds, just like he was, and a fair few of them are completely naked, men and women alike. Maybe they arrived that way, but judging by the discarded articles of clothing scattered about the floor, it’s more likely that they stripped themselves sometime after the fact. By all outward appearances, they don’t seem to mind being here at all— in fact, you could say they’re making _the most_ of it.

They’re laughing, moving. Dancing, if you could call it that; their movements are slow and uncoordinated, as if drunk. And not just dancing, but touching. And not just laughing, but sighing, moaning together; this place seems to be host to one giant, never-ending orgy.

It had shocked him when he first realised what those sounds were, and even more when he’d seen proof of it with his own eyes. And if he happened to stray too close to one of them by accident, they would reach for him with obvious intentions— _very_ obvious, if they happened to be male.

John has tried talking to them, but they seem far too gone to respond. Their pupils are blown wide, and they seem high out of their minds on some kind of drug, his best guess being Ecstasy. Whatever it is, though, John hasn’t seen any kind of paraphernalia here; no pills or baggies, no needles or cigarettes. It makes him wonder if their state is self-induced, or whether someone is keeping them drugged like this, passive and compliant. They don’t seem aware of themselves at all. It’s a little scary, and he wonders if he’s the only one who didn’t choose to be here. He isn’t enjoying the scene quite as much as the rest of them seem to be. This — whatever this is — really isn’t his ‘thing’.

But what worries him most about all this, is that when he wakes up back in his own bed he doesn’t remember being here at all. Not a single second of it. He never does, that is, not until he returns. Because here in this hall, he can recall every one of his visits right from when it first started happening. He remembers that first time with perfect clarity: how he’d snapped suddenly awake, senses on high alert in the unfamiliar environment. And then running and yelling, banging against the metal doors, confused and angry and frightened. He had no idea what was going on or where he was, and he’d truly thought he was about to be murdered.

Well, he’d been half-right about it, perhaps. And the next time it happened, he hadn't been so convinced he was about to die. So he’d allowed himself to explore the place a little further, but when the doors buzzed, he'd still pelted across the room at top speed in case they closed again.

After a while, John had started to feel like a rat trapped in a cage. Was somebody watching him? Was he expected to _do_ something here? He never sees or hears from his captors, and nobody ever enters or leaves the hall during his stay. The other people here are useless. He’s tried shaking them by their shoulders, screaming at them to wake up, to tell him what’s going on, or ask what’s the matter with them, or who is doing this… But long since gave up trying. They’re virtually incapable of thought, let alone speech.

A few visits later, and he'd mostly gotten used to it. He accepted there was no telling when he’d return, and no way to prevent it happening again. Back home, he still doesn’t have a clue any of this is happening to him. Now it’s just a bizarre, generally harmless event, like a storm passing overhead; there’s nothing to be done but sit and wait it out.

And when he passes through those metal doors, he wakes back up in his own bed. Oblivious. It’s as if he never leaves at all, like this is just some crazy dream or a hallucination. It’s like something entirely separate, a reality disconnected from his waking world. That sounds crazy, and maybe it is? Maybe he’s going insane, or maybe there’s a carbon monoxide leak in his flat, slowly and invisibly poisoning him to death. Who the hell knows?

The whole thing has a distinctly otherworldly feel to it, as if this can’t be a real place. And admittedly he isn’t prepared to rule out the possibility. John isn’t an overly superstitious man, but he does think there may be more to life than what’s been discovered so far. He does think there might be _some_ kind of God, and he’s seen enough weird, unexplainable events over his life to be fairly convinced of the existence of ghosts. Perhaps not exactly the classic idea of ghosts as dead people haunting the corporeal world, but just… _something._ Some ethereal effect that can cross through to the physical world, and mess with people’s perceptions.

Or it could just be a dream. But he’d remember at least some of it after waking, surely? No, it’s too real to be a dream. Too vivid, too nuanced. The music unfamiliar and beautiful, and definitely not a product of his own decidedly amelodic brain, unless he's a closeted musical genius. All the best composers in history were a bit touched in the head, weren't they?

But if it is a real place, then maybe he sleepwalks here? Except he's never known himself to sleepwalk. Not even as a child.

Oh, God. What if he's had a stroke? Or multiple strokes, even, and this is just his brain losing its grip on reality, unable to cope for the damage? That’s certainly one of his more depressing ideas; he doesn't linger on it for long, in case it’s true. He’d rather not know. As they say: ignorance is bliss.

In the end, this is all he knows for sure: that sometimes he goes to sleep in his flat, in his bed, on a day like any other day. And then sometimes he wakes up here, in this room, surrounded by these strange masked dancers murmuring nonsense and having endless, drugged-out sex with each other. And when he goes back home, he doesn’t remember it. Rinse and repeat.

It is real. This _really_ happens to him. It’s not a dream or a hallucination… probably. Or… _could_ he be hallucinating? But then, why can’t he remember anything about it back in the ‘real world'? Why do the memories vanish, and why do they come back as soon as he finds himself here again?

John loses himself in the usual circle of maddeningly unanswerable questions until, as the clock chimes five — morning then, not afternoon — the metal doors emit a loud buzz, swinging open of their own accord. And as John trots over to the exit, he glances back at the rest of them, wondering why they don’t leave too. Perplexed, but admitting he may never come to understand it, he steps through the doors and into the narrow corridor beyond.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s beside alarm blares at 6:30AM, startling him awake. He groans, pressing his nose harder into the pillow. His eyes ache, his head pounding. How can it be morning _already?_

He has an appointment with his therapist, Ella, today. They’ve been trying to figure out the source of his recent bouts of sleeplessness and headaches. So far, so useless. He only keeps going because at least it’s someone to talk to, even if she’ll insist on psychoanalysing everything he says.

Rolling onto his back, John presses his fingertips into the corners of his eyes.

_God, it feels like I haven’t slept at all…_


	2. Chapter 2

The morning radio chatters excitedly about the week’s topical events. John butters his toast and sits down at the table.  
  
_“… Police say it was only a matter of time before Richardson would be able to smuggle the precious collection out of the UK, and if not for the consulting detective’s assistance on the case, it’s very likely he would’ve gotten away scott-free. While the tabloids are falling over themselves to get an interview with the increasingly famed Mr Sherlock Holmes, the rest of us are left wondering: have our boys on the force sunk to such lows they need to hire amateurs to do the work for them? What do you think, Danny?”_  
  
The presenter’s voice is irritating. He switches it off. A vicious headache is pounding between his temples, and the paracetamol is barely taking the edge off. He’s been getting these more often lately. His doctor (not that he isn’t capable of making his own diagnosis, but an outside opinion is sometimes helpful) thinks he might not be getting enough sleep.  
  
_Bloody useless._ But maybe has a point.  
  
It’s not through lack of trying; John usually turns in at 10:30PM at the latest, because it isn’t as if he has anything better to do anyway. He doesn’t have any trouble falling asleep once he tucks himself under the sheets. He has it on good authority that he’s a heavy sleeper, once he gets going; one night, while he’d been house-sitting for a friend, he'd even slept through a street evacuation. A heavy storm blew though the neighbourhood and caused a nearby river to burst its banks. Apparently, there had been police patrols moving through the area with loudspeakers, warning homeowners to pack up and seek temporary accommodations until the threat of flooding subsided. John had woken up that morning thinking he’d missed the Apocalypse.  
  
On most nights, he wakes up feeling well rested and full of energy. But sometimes, like last night, he’ll wake to his alarm as if he only just crawled into bed five minutes ago. Yet he doesn’t remember waking in the night, or having any nightmares, and he definitely went to bed at the usual hour. And so it doesn’t make any rational sense when it happens.  
  
His therapist, Ella, gives him similarly useless advice. First she asks John about his drinking, and he tells her, truthfully, that he only occasionally indulges. And when she presses for a definition of the word "occasionally", John is forced to admit he’d started having a glass of whiskey almost every night after dinner. An accompaniment, not a requirement. He doesn’t _need_ to have a drink; it’s just a treat to himself.  
  
“And do those single glasses of whiskey ever slip over into two, or three?” she asks.  
  
_Well… okay, sometimes they do. But I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not like my sister._  
  
Ella suggests keeping an eye on it, and John agrees, if only to placate her and move the topic along to something less uncomfortable, like his lack of meaningful relationships and totally absent love-life. John endures it with a craving for something strong and bitter.

 

* * *

 

 

He feels better rested the next day. He’s meeting his friend Mike Stamford at the pub after work. Probably not a great idea, given the promise he’s just made to Ella. But the pub was Mike’s choice, and John didn’t want to embarrass himself by mentioning why he would rather just have coffee or something. He keeps to his promise, though, ordering a coke instead of his usual draft, and they spend a couple of easy hours catching up on each other’s lives; John’s half of the conversation takes up barely twenty minutes.  
  
“Nothing happens to me,” he complains over the rim of his fizzy glass, “except these bloody headaches lately.” And Mike nods at him sympathetically.

_It doesn’t surprise him, then. That’s lovely._

John’s life has become so dull that even his friends don’t expect him to say anything interesting. What a sad thing, he thinks, being pitied by someone like Stamford. And then he immediately feels guilty for having thought it.  
  
That was unfair. Mike is a great guy, really. They’ve known each other for years. He’s a good friend and pleasant company, and he’s intelligent and he likes to teach. John appreciates and enjoys his steady, reliable friendship. He’s just a bit… median, that’s all. A bit safe. Predictable. There’s nothing wrong with that— he’s a normal, average bloke leading a normal, average life. Nothing bad about that at all. Mike is unassuming in both looks and manner; he hates rocking the boat, and doesn’t have much of a taste for adventure or excitement. He’d never be called _the life of the party,_ but he’s happy enough, and his simple life works well for him.

And that’s what John finds so frustrating about the look being directed at him now. Because John isn’t like that. That’s not what _his_ life should be comparable to.

Mike downs the rest of his (third) beer, and glances at John’s half-unfinished coke, quirking an eyebrow over his thin-rimmed glasses. John abandons his drink and they stand up, gathering their coats. They exchange a friendly handshake, and the usual promises to meet up again soon, both knowing that ‘soon’ will inevitably slip by into several years before they both start feeling guilty about finding excuses to keep putting it off.

Later, John is ensconced in the back of a cab, mulling over the new lows his life has sunk to.  
  
_Am I really that boring now, too?_

The rest of the week drags on, a grey Mobius strip of his life on endless repeat. The surgery is getting busier this time of year: Flu season is picking off the weak and the elderly, two demographics John despairs might already be starting to describe him. He definitely _feels_ old. But it’s been a few days since the last unexplained headache, and he’s dutifully cut down on his drinking in the meantime, and it’s helping, he thinks. He's sleeping better lately. Maybe things will start to look up again soon.

 

* * *

  
  
He wakes up in the ballroom, a flighty orchestral melody swanning through the air.  
  
_Well. Shit._  
  
The memories of this place come flooding back in waves, shoehorning themselves into the pages of his mental calendar like uninvited guests. Truth be told, he’d rather forget this ever happens. Rather not be aware of it at all, like the others who come here. (Or do they live here?) But there isn’t any stopping it once it starts. In this place, he remembers everything.

And loath as he is to admit it, some small part of him is privately intrigued by all this. For as disturbing as it is to realise he’s being repeatedly kidnapped from the safety of his own home, he can’t deny that it’s the sort of excitement he was complaining has been missing from his life. Something mysterious— possibly even dangerous. He’s only aware of it for a few hours every couple of days, but during that time, at least things get a little bit interesting.

Someone is giving him a purpose, setting a role for him to play. The only thing missing are his stage directions.

John mostly just wanders about aimlessly while he’s here, waiting to go home. It never seems to last more than a few hours. He watches the others, confused and disturbed by their lack of inhibitions. These people, they just sort of float around the room, dopey-eyed smiles plastered onto their faces, their arms reaching out to pet and stroke whomever happens by. Two sloppy dancers accidentally bump into each other, and in the next moment their tongues are dancing across flesh, hips grinding obscenely.

It's difficult not to be affected.

And John has sat, gobsmacked, on the fringes of spontaneous orgies, watching as they writhed and crawled over one another, what little clothing any of them still had torn away and tossed aside as they indulged in carnal pleasure. He can't be expected to join them? Is that his purpose in being brought here, for someone’s viewing pleasure? Are there cameras?

The thought almost makes him laugh. Who’d want to watch _him_ having sex?  
  
Besides, if he has to get drugged up to take part, he’d rather pass. But on a few occasions that he’d never openly admit, he'd simply taken in the scenery and had a quiet wank by himself. Moments of weakness, perhaps, but can he really be blamed for it? Being trapped in here, sometimes for hours, surrounded by the debauched sight and smell of them? Echoes of pleasure reverberate constantly throughout the hall, encouraged by the singing of soft, oiled strings. It’s be enough to wind anybody up, and occasionally he just needed to release the pressure, as it were.  
  
Well, he’s decided. If this is his lot in life, then he’s not going to examine it too closely. Might as well just enjoy it for what it is. Maybe he might even pluck up enough courage to join them, one of these days.  
  
_Let’s not get too carried away,_ he scolds inwardly.  
  
A brass chime sounds out through the hall, and John picks himself up. He peers across the room, eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. 6 O’clock. That’s a bit later than he’s used to, and he feels decently rested. His bedside alarm will begin screaming at him in another thirty minutes; Monday morning, busiest day at the surgery.

If he is asleep, and this is all just a recurring dream, that should be a convincing enough litmus test.  
  
He notices a throng of people gathering in the centre of the room, scrabbling madly at something he doesn’t quite have a clear line of sight to from this distance. It doesn’t look like another orgy. The only orgies he’s ever witnessed (not counting porn) have been in this very room, and so admittedly his experience of what constitutes such activity is rather limited. But they’re unusually energetic today, frantic in their movements, and so he doesn't think so. They're babbling, shrieking, jostling each other— there’s nothing sensual about this. Viciously they claw forward, grabbing collars, shoving, yanking each other out of the way. Desperate and animalistic. They look more like a pack of piranhas in a feeding frenzy.  
  
Perhaps that’s an apt description, as through the fleeting gaps between bodies John spots a long table set with what appears to be a feast laid out on silver plates and trays.  
  
_Huh. That’s certainly new._  
  
He can’t recall there ever being food in the room before. This must be a rare occasion. Or, perhaps the timing of his visits generally don’t coincide with whenever the meals are delivered. The revellers vie for position at the table, snatching at morsels and shoving competing hands out of the way. This is the most active and focused on a task he’s _ever_ seen them.  
  
_Are they starving? Or is the food here just that good?_  
  
He approaches the group, curiosity getting the better of him. The floor around them is littered with fallen scraps and spilled cups. More than once he watches as someone slips on something wet underfoot, kept upright only by virtue of being surrounded by bodies pressing in on all sides. A small chunk of food — what looks like a square cut of cheese — flies out of the crowd and lands by his feet. He plucks it up, evaluating it with an experimental sniff.  
  
_“Don’t_ eat the cheese,” utters a low voice over his shoulder, startling John half to death. He whirls around, caught off-guard by the proximity of it. He’d begun to think nobody else here had control over their faculties besides himself. Who is _this?_  
  
A tall man stands peering down at him imperiously, hands clasped behind his back. Pale skin, long neck, slim build. His face is obscured by the requisite mask, but the lower half and most of his nose are visible beneath its pointed snout. His bowed upper lip could turn the archways here green with envy, and his dark eyes gleam from within the painted porcelain sockets of his mask. It has a red face and white cheeks, and eyes lined with thick, tapered strokes of black. Completing the look, a pair of large, pointed ears stand alert over a crest of curly black hair.

He is, apparently, a Fox.  
  
“Why not?” John replies, remaining casual. “Might get a bit peckish later on. Though, I’m more of an Edam bloke myself.”  
  
The man’s lip twitches, betraying nothing that John can easily read. “Well, if you want to end up like the rest of them, feel free to indulge yourself,” he remarks, gesturing towards the table. “But as a doctor, I’d imagine you’d be rather keen to avoid ingesting anything that’s laced with enough gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid to knock a bull elephant off its feet.”  
  
John drops the cheese. “You’re joking. _GHB?”_  
  
“Among other things, I suspect.”  
  
“Why the hell would there be—” His blood suddenly runs cold. "Wait. How did you know I'm a doctor?"  
  
_Oh god. Is this him? Did_ he _bring me here? Is he behind all this?_  
  
The Fox doesn’t act like the others, but he certainly looks the part. He’s wearing a set of black silk pyjamas. Quite expensive-looking, but still— hardly daywear. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks, either. He must be a guest here too, then, unless he’s simply trying to blend in.

And they do that sort of thing, don’t they? Mad people, weirdos who fancy themselves eccentrics or villains. They dress up and mingle with their victims, hiding in plain sight, delighting in the dangerous proximity of it. Even sane criminals often return to the scene of a crime, just to be a little closer to it, to revel in the thrill of being undetected, extending an invitation to the police to discover him amongst the crowd of onlookers.

The hair on the back of John’s neck stands on end; an automatic, evolutionary response to the presence of a _predator._  
  
The mysterious stranger doesn’t seem at all concerned about their surroundings, or the fact that there’s a group of about twenty raving loonies scratching each other up over a buffet nearby. In fact, one might go so far as to say he looks bored by it all, and especially by John’s increasingly suspicious expression.  
  
_He probably does this sort of thing a lot, doesn’t he? He’s been getting away with it far too long. Kidnapping people, drugging them. Watching them perform for his amusement. Sick bastard._  
  
_He’s good at this, blending into a crowd. I never saw it until he made his move, but I must have seen him around at some point. Must have. He looks just the part. Gotta admit, that's impressive._  
  
_Impressive? Sod that! He’s a bloody maniac! Is he going to kill me? I’d like to see him try. One move, mate, that’s all I need. I’ll have you pinned to the floor in three seconds flat, you sodding—_  
  
But the Fox has apparently lost interest in him now, and John is left watching him stride across the hall on long, slender legs towards one of the open archways. John glances around, his hands clenching and unclenching, as he considers the wisdom (or not) of giving chase to a potential madman. Could be dangerous.

If he really is the one orchestrating this, then why would he just give himself away like that? It seems like an amateur mistake. Surely he’d know that revealing himself now gives John the advantage in whatever game he’s trying to play? He’d said _don’t eat the cheese._ But why? Why give John that warning, telling him the food is drugged? Isn’t that what he wants, to get him incapacitated and sex-crazed like the rest of them?

The thought sends a shiver through him. But if he’d wanted that, he would have just let John eat. Not the orchestrator then; just another guest. But he’s nothing like the rest of them. He’s lucid, like John, and he’d appeared out of nowhere to protect him. And perhaps they’re the only two lucid people here because neither of them have eaten the food.  
  
So who _is_ he? John needs to know. This is the first new thing to happen here in quite a while. If anyone can tell him what’s going on, this guy seems like his best bet to get some answers. He makes his decision quickly and trots off after the mysterious Fox.


	3. Chapter 3

The strange man with the Fox mask has his ear pressed against a yellow wall. He raps his knuckles on the surface once, twice. Shifts a few steps, taps again. Listening. For what?  
  
John stands in the doorway, unable to will his feet any closer. The room he’s followed the Fox into is smaller than the grand hall. There are a few wall-mounted candelabras providing a modicum of light, casting long shadows into the room. A brief glint of metal hides beneath a shock of curls as the other man angles his head down.  
  
There are some desks piled with stacks of papers that John can’t read from here, and a couple of chairs, some tipped over, fallen under a cascade of wayward pages. One wall of the room is stacked from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, half of them empty, their contents scattered across the ground as if swept off by an angry spectre.  
  
John is caught in the awkward space between fear and curiosity. Despite his superior height, the mysterious stranger doesn’t seem too physically imposing; John reckons he could take him if necessary. But the man isn’t paying any attention to John, picking his way across the room now to test a different wall. John cranes his head to read the spine of a tome laying open near his feet: _Der Eisenhans._ Sounds German. He doesn't speak it.  
  
“You might consider making yourself useful, if you’re at all interested in leaving,” the Fox calls over to him, still tapping the walls.

John bristles reflexively. “What do you want?”  
  
The man turns to face him, arms folded across his buttoned-up pyjama shirt. “Go test another room. Listen for hollow spaces, gaps, secret passages. Search. It’ll be quicker than me doing it all by myself.”  
  
“Is this some kind of game?” John is rooted in place, fists clenched. His expression lies mostly hidden beneath the mask, but his voice exudes a sufficient level of aggression to get his point across: he doesn’t like being toyed with, and he’s not about to stand for it. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
The man sighs dramatically, annoyance rising in his voice. “Why do you _think_ I’m doing this? Oh, of course. You don’t.” He moves over to the bookshelf, shifting books and running his fingertips along the back panels. Then he chucks a few of them over his shoulder and begins climbing up the shelves like a monkey.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” John retorts, “I’m not a bloody madman. I don’t know how people like you think.”  
  
“Piss off then, if you’re not interested in helping.”

But John isn’t going to give up that easily.  
  
Emboldened by his own rising ire, John steps further into the room. “Listen, you. Now that you’ve shown yourself, I’m not going to let you get away with it any longer. You know that, right? I’m done with this… whatever it is. This isn’t legal. Open the doors. Let them _go.”_ The man ignores him, climbing even higher, and John is rapidly losing his patience. He crouches down to pluck one of the discarded books off the floor. Then he takes aim and lobs it at the man, striking him in the shoulder.  
  
_“Ow!”_ It sets the Fox off-balance, long arms scrabbling for purchase. After a moment to steady himself, he shoots a tense look over his shoulder. “What the bloody hell was that for?”  
  
John picks up another book and waves it threateningly in his direction. The man growls and makes his way back down, hopping off at the third bookshelf. He storms up to John, who immediately straightens, preparing for a fight.  
  
“Look, you _idiot,”_ he rumbles, “You’re clearly under the mistaken impression that I have anything to do with your captivity here. And while I have absolutely no interest in wasting my time attempting to convince you otherwise, _if_ you are going to spend all day chucking things at my back, then I see no other option than to incapacitate you. So, how do you want to do this: Fisticuffs? Encyclopedias at twenty paces?”  
  
John blinks at him for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing. “Mate, I don’t think you’d have a chance in _hell_ of incapacitating me! You think you’ve got an advantage with height? But that’s just going to make it easier for _me_ to throw _you_ off-balance.”  
  
The man studies him for a few tense moments. He’s close enough that John can see the complex colours in his eyes. A brilliant mixture of hues encircle his pupils, like nebulae caught in the gravity wells of a pair of black holes. They're strikingly beautiful, and they're narrowing at John. Assessing him, perhaps? Or is he getting ready to take a swing?

John tenses. But then, stepping back, the man’s posture relaxes slightly. “Yes, I rather think you would, wouldn’t you.”  
  
_Yes, I bloody well would. And I bloody well will, if you try anything._  
  
“How long ago were you invalided from the army? Three, four months?” The question catches him completely by surprise.  
  
“What? How—”  
  
“Your shoulder,” he explains. “You’re left handed, but you prefer to throw with your right arm. Your left shoulder is stiff, tender from a recent injury, but not _too_ recent. Given such a lengthy recovery, it must have been a traumatic injury. You were shot…” He circles around the shorter man once, as if cataloguing him. “But it wasn’t a random shooting. You didn’t catch a stray bullet on the streets of London, _far_ too rare an occurrence these days. Knife crime is up, you’re four times more likely to be stabbed than shot. It wasn’t a mugging, then; you were on duty. Middle-East, judging by the tan lines around your wrists and the back of your neck. So… Kurdî qise dekeyt? _(Do you speak Kurdish?)”_  
  
He pauses, waiting for a response. When John looks at him blankly, he tries again. “Aya ta pa pakhto khabarey kawalai shey? _(Do you speak Pashto?)”_  
  
At this, John nods cautiously. “Lag lag. _(Yes, a little.)”_  
  
“Afghanistan, then. Thought so.” The man smiles broadly, looking pleased with himself. Stunned into silence, John can’t help but grin a little in return. Before he can think of a response, the man swoops past him and out into the hallway. John hesitates, but quickly catches up to him in another room.  
  
“How did you know all that?” John asks, momentarily forgetting to sound angry.  
  
The fox is examining their new surroundings, slender fingers picking through a collection of stationary and miscellaneous desk clutter. “I didn’t know, I _saw._ Observation gives a much greater advantage than height, I can assure you. In any case,” he turns, heading back towards the door, apparently finding nothing worth examining here. John steps aside to let him pass. “The point is I know that you’re a soldier, and you would most likely best me in a contest of hand-to-hand combat.”  
  
The man spins on his heel, and there’s a flash of something metal, and John doesn’t catch it fast enough. He feels the tip of something sharp pressed against the back of his neck. “…But _observation_ really is my better skill, after all.”  
  
John slowly raises his arms.  
  
_Shit._  
  
“Turn around,” he hears. John does so, shuffling around on his feet until they’re mask to mask. The Fox can barely contain his laughter as he flips the knife over, gripping the blade, handle facing towards John. He offers it up sportively, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. _“Idiot.”_

 

* * *

 

 

The fox pads barefoot and businesslike along the halls, and John has decided to follow along behind him for now. They test every room, every wall, and John does his part to help speed along the process.

The stranger seems relatively trustworthy (and John is armed now at least, not that a blunt letter opener could do much damage in a scrap) but it doesn’t hurt to be making his own objective assessments in the meantime. If there are any hidden passages or secret escape routes, then between the pair of them, they’re bound to stumble across something eventually. But all of the walls he tests sound solid, and by the look of things, his new acquaintance hasn’t turned up anything either.  
  
They’ve checked every room but one. This is their last hope of discovering a way out, John thinks. They’ve scanned six other rooms, as well as the perimeter of the grand ballroom, and turned up nothing. No hidden doors, no windows, no secret buttons— do buildings in real life even _have_ that sort of thing? Hidden passageways behind walls and bookshelves? He certainly hopes so. He’d really like to find a way to leave here his own terms.  
  
As they head towards the final room, John is feeling curious. “What’s your name, by the way?”  
  
“Sherlock,” the man says, not breaking his stride. “Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“No shit?” John exclaims. “The, what did they call it… ‘Consulting Detective’?”  
  
“The same.”  
  
“Blimey. Been hearing about you on the radio for months,” John grins. “Fancy meeting a minor celebrity here. It’s very impressive, how you go about solving all those cold cases.” The Fox’s mouth quirks into a lopsided smile at the awkward compliment. “Although… I mean, is that why you’re here, then? Investigating this place?”  
  
“Nope,” he replies shortly.  
  
“Oh. Right then. Well, you should. I mean, you are. That’s good. ‘Bout bloody time the rozzers got wind of this, isn’t it? I don’t know how they bring us here without anyone seeing—”  
  
The Fox (Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh!) has stopped abruptly in front of a large door. He turns the handle, swinging the door open wide, and steps through with confidence. John is right behind him.  
  
The room is pitch black. John can't see a thing inside, except for the small amount of light that spills in through the open doorway. And when John steps aside, moving his shadow out of the way, that’s when he sees it: a body, lying face-down on the floor in the middle of the room. Sherlock has seen it too. He approaches cautiously.  
  
“Careful,” John warns, checking over his shoulder. This would be a very bad place to be ambushed. The detective crouches down next to the figure, pressing two fingers into the hollow of their neck.  
  
“Cold,” he says. “Dead.”  
  
John’s heart sinks. He steps forward, crouching on the other side of her. She looks fairly young, no older than thirty in his estimation. Her face is obscured behind a sequined mask of some exotic bird.  
  
“Overdose?”  
  
“You’re the doctor,” Sherlock notes, pushing the long hair away from the woman’s neck. “Diagnosis?”  
  
John presses his lips together in thought. He feels for a pulse; nothing, not that he expected it. He bends down close to her face, smelling near her mouth. Slightly fruity. Flavoured lip balm, or something she recently drank? No vomit that he can detect. No strong alcohol. He glances over her limp body, a bra and knickers preserving her decency, if not her dignity in this sorry state.  
  
“Can’t get much of an idea in this light. We might need to drag her out into the hall.”

Sherlock agrees. Together they pick her up, arms and feet, and shuffle out of the dark room. In better light, John leans her against the wall, slipping back into doctoring mode. After a few minutes of examination, he straightens and stands, clearing his throat.  
  
“I can’t see an obvious cause of death,” he begins slowly, “But it doesn’t look like she gave much of a struggle. There’s a few burst blood vessels in her eyes, possibly suggesting suffocation, but I don’t see any marks around her neck. Can’t feel any obstructions in her throat, either, and there’s no vomit, so I don’t think she choked, but God knows. That’ll need an autopsy to confirm.”  
  
Sherlock bends down near the body, his eyes scanning over every inch. “Time of death, estimated?”  
  
John half-shrugs. “Her body’s still in a state of primary flaccidity. No rigor mortis yet. But this skin discolouration only starts occurring after half an hour or so. I’d say we’re looking at a time of death somewhere between 1-3 hours, maximum. Which means…” He looks at Sherlock, who rises suddenly to his feet.  
  
“She was either killed very soon before we arrived, or while we’ve actively been here.”  
  
John feels his pulse quicken. “Do you think they’re still here? The murderer— Right now, somewhere?”  
  
Sherlock tilts his head to one side. “Possibly. If she died while we’ve been poking around the other rooms, then the killer has to be one of the current guests. There’s no other way in or out, barring anything we’ll find in this last room, and we would’ve heard the main doors open.”  
  
John glances down the hall, suppressing a shiver of dread. They may be being watched at this very moment. If so, it would be hard to spot anyone in this light. “We should stick close, watch each other’s backs,” he suggests. Sherlock nods.  
  
They peer back into the dark room. John can’t see any further inside than the borrowed light from the hallway, and Sherlock pulls him back, closing the door. He whispers to John with a hushed voice. “We’ll need a light source. There’s no telling what’s hiding in there. Or, potentially, _who.”_  
  
He’s right; going in there now would be stupidly dangerous. “We could pinch some candles?” he suggests.  
  
“No, we can’t.”  
  
John thinks for a moment. “Why not? It wouldn't be a whole lot of light, but it would be enough to see anybody hiding in the dark. And in a scrap, a solid silver candelabra could make a decent bludgeoning weapon.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Because they’re _electric.”_  
  
"…Oh."

Electric candles— now John has heard of everything. But he supposes it makes sense. They wouldn’t last forever, of course; someone would eventually have to come in and swap out the bulbs. But that’s less maintenance than wax candlesticks, meaning less often that their captors (Plural? Or could this all be the work of one stupidly wealthy psychopath?) would have to enter the environment, exposing themselves to their trapped prey.

Whoever set all this up must have put a lot of thought into it. And money.  
  
“We should go back to the main room then,” John suggests. “Go over what we know, come up with some kind of plan… Keep an eye on the others?”

Sherlock agrees and starts down the hallway, but John stops him. “One sec,” he says, trotting over to where a rectangular bench is covered by a length of white cloth. He takes the cloth and lays it and carefully over the body of the woman. “Rest in peace, um. Whoever you were.”  
  
After John finishes paying his respects to the girl, they walk back into the ballroom. Sherlock’s eyes begin scanning over the people. John looks too, prying for anything suspicious.

 _One of these people doesn’t belong here. But who?_  
  
He’s painfully aware he’s not much good at picking out an anomaly, given the proof of the man currently standing next to him. Sherlock hadn’t even been trying to hide from him, yet John didn't notice his presence until he was approached. How long had he even been there?  
  
The other guests (he should really start referring to them as victims, not guests) have retreated to darker corners, resting off their full bellies and high-as-a-kite brains. John notes they’ve returned to their more ‘natural’ state: passive and uninhibited. That’s to be expected, he thinks, given that they just had a dose-up of a potentially lethal cocktail of psychotropic drugs.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is regarding them more like potted plants at a garden store than living, breathing people.  
  
“This doesn’t bother you, all this?” John motions at them, not letting his eyes linger any longer than strictly necessary. The other man shrugs.  
  
“Not really. Heightened libido is a predictable physiological response to prolonged psychotropic drug use. Half of these people are office workers. A few students, a couple of teachers— hopefully not from the same schools. That one—” he points, “is an artist. Over there, a shop owner. When normal people are driven to primal extremes, sexual conduct is a foregone conclusion. There’s nothing remarkable about it.”  
  
John sniffs. “Right,” he says. “Of course. Not quite what I meant, though. Nevermind.”  
  
He takes another glance around the room. How long have these people been forced to live like this? Subsisting on a diet of laced food and drink, they probably don’t even know who they are anymore. There’s no doubt left in his mind that they’re being kept here unwillingly, just like he is. And he thinks back to the couple of occasions he’d sat and watched… God, that had been so fucking _wrong_ of him, hadn’t it?  
  
It’s not like he didn’t know, on some level, that they were compromised. Of course he knew. He can't deny it. But at the time, he had no idea why any of them were here. He saw them, but he didn’t really _observe._ And now one of them has turned up dead, and suddenly John has been made horribly aware of the true sinister nature of the whole affair. He allows himself a moment of selfish relief that he never seriously entertained the idea of joining the fray; he’d never forgive himself.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
_I get let out. I get to go home. They don’t. Why?_  
  
“Do you get let back out after a while, too?” he asks. No reply; Sherlock has already wandered off without him.

John spots him a second later, moving through the room from person to person, plucking up their wrists and squinting at them. John has no idea what he’s doing.  
  
“Oy, don’t wander off,” he scolds when he catches up to Sherlock’s side.  
  
“Show me your wrist,” Sherlock orders, grabbing John’s arm before he can protest. He looks over both sides of both wrists before letting him go again, leaving John examining his arms in confusion.  
  
“What?” He squeaks, baffled. “What are you looking for?”  
  
“Didn’t you see it? The tattoo? On her wrist?” Sherlock shoots him a withering look. “Oh, come on _doctor,_ you can’t have missed it. You examined her body!”  
  
John flushes. “I was examining for signs of death, not her bloody fashion choices.” Still, he hadn’t noticed. And that’s a little embarrassing, when you’re being chided by the most observant man in the country. “What are you on about, tattoos?”  
  
Sherlock strides over to a man laying prone and half buried under a bear fur rug. He picks up his wrist, showing the underside to John. “They all have them. See? This one… #17. The dead girl, she had one too. Hers was #2. Everybody here is tattooed, except for us.”  
  
John crouches beside the man. His mask is that of a giraffe. It looks ridiculous. He watches as his eyes roll around in his skull, struggling to keep his grip on reality, or maybe just fighting to stop the world from spinning. John feels a swell of pity for him. He checks the man’s airways: he's breathing, shallow but steady. Good enough. This isn’t safe for someone this far out of his mind though, and so John dutifully unwraps him from the rug and puts him into the recovery position. When he’s satisfied, he covers the man back over for good measure.  
  
He looks up afterwards to find Sherlock watching him intently. John offers him a tight smile. “Right, so. What’s the importance of that, then?”  
  
A quiet moment. Then, sighing, the Fox lowers himself to the floor next to John. “I don’t know,” he complains, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers under his chin. “But it must mean _something…”_  
  
John isn’t sure what to make of it, either.  
  
“You may want to check the others,” Sherlock says after a moment, motioning at the man under the rug. “I… skipped over the whole _checking they’re still alive_ bit.”  
  
And so, John spends the next hour checking vital signs and manipulating passed-out bodies, doing his best to ensure they won’t choke on their own vomit. Now and then he glances over at Sherlock, and their eyes meet through their painted masks. Every time it happens, he finds it difficult to look away.


	4. Chapter 4

“So do they keep you here, like the rest?”  
  
“No.” Sherlock has his feet stretched out, legs crossed in a casual pose. Not at all like someone waiting to be pounced on by a murderer. “The doors will open eventually. They always do.”

They’re sitting on a pair of luxuriously soft, sheepskin bean bag chairs, which John stealthily manoeuvred away from a larger pile, being careful not to disturb the other occupants that lie sprawled there senseless and snoring. They’ve positioned themselves against a wall of the ballroom, as far away from everyone else as they can get. John is reasonably confident nobody can get the drop on them like this; it’s the safest position to be in, and he trusts Sherlock enough to watch his back.

But no matter where they hole up, John knows their invisible murderer could come for them at any time.  
  
“Why is that, do you think? Why are we let out, when the rest of them stay here?”  
  
A shrug. “I have several theories. None of which can be tested from in here, nor will I remember to test for them later. It’s annoying.”  
  
The hours are dragging on. John glances at the clock; it’s Midday, a new record for him. There’s a growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach, making him restless. Today has been very different to the usual routine, whatever ‘usual’ means in this context. Eager to keep conversation flowing, John carries on probing him for information. Besides, he's curious. Sherlock is something of a London legend, and here was a chance to get to know him a little more intimately.

Or, considering their present environment, perhaps _intimately_ wasn't the right word. John quickly scrubs it from his mind.  
  
“So when did this start happening for you? Being brought here, I mean.”  
  
The Fox wiggles his toes. “A few months ago. I initially dismissed it as a dream.”  
  
“Same here. More like a nightmare at this point,” John mutters.  
  
They’re waiting for the doors to open. There’s nothing else to be done. They’ve already discussed several plans of escape, and Sherlock has dismissed almost all of them as pointless or stupid:  
  
_"No John, we can’t hide behind the doors when they open, wait for someone to come in, and them pounce on them. Nobody’s that stupid. Except perhaps you.”_  
  
_“No, we can’t jury-rig some kind of home-made tripwire and set it across the floor and then watch from under a pile of chairs. There’s bound to be cameras all over the place in here; they can see what we’re up to. And anyway, that’s a ridiculous idea. Don’t be an idiot.”_  
  
_“For God’s sake, John, I’m not climbing up to check the ceiling for secret passageways onto the roof. First of all, how the hell would I get up there? And secondly, what use is a passage onto the roof, if you’d have to bring climbing equipment to reach it? Use your brain."_  
  
And by that point John was getting tired of being called _stupid_ or _idiot_ every five seconds. But some other ideas had merit, even Sherlock had to admit.

For one, they both agreed there’s something funny about the narrow hallway beyond the metal doors. Whenever they’ve left the ballroom, the doors shut tight behind them, and they have no knowledge of what happens next, only that they wake up later, back in their beds. Sherlock concludes there must be no other explanation: that hallway is gassed. They’re probably knocked out in there, and then taken home while they’re still out cold.

John suggested they try holding their breaths and see if they can make it out the other end.  
  
“I can’t see it working, but we might as well rule it out,” Sherlock had shrugged.  
  
It was a shining vote of confidence.  
  
Also, John noted, they should try bringing someone with them when they leave. John is strong enough to carry a limp body on his back, and he’s already picked his target: a smallish man, slim, with enough clothing still attached to him to make his rescue a little less awkward for both of them. He has the tattoo #19 on his wrist. John has dragged him near the doors in preparation to take him outside.  
  
_“_ Just because you carry someone out there doesn’t mean our captors will let him go,” Sherlock had pointed out.  
  
“You bring one too,” John had demanded.  
  
“Feel free to ruin your own back. If it actually works, I’ll pitch in next time,” Sherlock had skillfully evaded.  
  
After that, Sherlock had grown increasingly irritated and snappy with John’s suggestions, until John had finally given up talking to him and sat back in silence. The man is absolutely bloody infuriating, and John is quickly learning why most of the country considered him an arrogant sociopath, because that’s exactly what he’s behaving like.

All that’s left to do now is wait. So they wait. After some amount of waiting, John looks up and catches Sherlock staring at him. It’s making him slightly uncomfortable. He searches for something benign to talk about. But before he can open his mouth to speak, someone with a t-shirt hanging loosely off his shoulder shuffles past them, mumbling incomprehensibly as he goes.

They watch him wobble past, barely able to stay on his feet. Then he sinks to the floor next to another, naked man, and some wordless contract is apparently struck between them. The prone figure reaches over to him and pulls the weight of the other over to straddle his hips. He has an airy, far-gone expression on his face as they begin frotting against each other, and John turns away, trying to mentally block out the sounds of their activity.  
  
“Christ. The atmosphere in here is driving me mad…” he mutters.  
  
Sherlock hums in response, sniffing the air. “Resin, amber. Burning incense. Notes of cinnamon… and something floral. Gardenias, I think. It’s coming from the vents.” He gestures toward a small metal grate etched into the wall, almost unnoticeable in the dark ambiance. “They’re keen to set an authentic mood, it seems. A Venetian Masquerade with a murderous twist; at least it’s finally getting interesting.”  
  
“Not really what I was talking about…” John sighs. Sherlock shrugs. "Don’t you find that a bit weird?”

Sherlock makes some noncommittal noise, and John isn’t sure what to make of it. Perhaps if he could see his expression clearer, _damn these bloody masks._ In any case, his companion doesn’t seem interested in talking anymore. They settle into silence again, John’s thoughts drifting in circles.  
  
“Are you alright?” he hears some time later.  
  
“Hmm?” John looks over and realises Sherlock has been watching him silently again.  
  
“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” Sherlock says quietly, picking at his fingernails. It catches John by surprise.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It isn’t your fault that she died,” he explains. “You couldn’t have saved her. You didn’t have all the relevant data. And even if you had, there’s nothing you could’ve done to change the outcome. So you shouldn’t feel guilty. It’s irrational.”  
  
“I don’t feel—” John’s protest is automatic, already halfway out before he can stop it. He really hadn’t been thinking about that at all. But now that he mentions it, he does. He _does_ feel guilty. He can’t help it; he’s probably the one person here who _could_ have kept her safe. Sherlock too, perhaps. Though, he seems more interested in searching for clues than stopping people from getting hurt. Of the pair of them, John is the doctor. He’s the caretaker. He should have been more vigilant.

Maybe if he’d been less interested in getting himself off, he could’ve spotted something sooner. Some kind of sign, or someone acting suspiciously. And now he can’t push it out of his mind. He’d sat there and watched them, _enjoyed_ watching them, gotten off to it. And the whole time—  
  
“Stop it,” Sherlock snaps. He leans forward, and John is captured in those eyes again. Piercing, intelligent, they won't let him go. “I won’t embarrass you, and this is the last I’ll ever speak of it. Suffice it to say, I know what you’re glooming over and there’s no point in blaming yourself. You’re tending to them now, and that’s all that matters. Understand?”  
  
John swallows heavily, heat rising over his skin. Of course— Sherlock must have seen him. Stupid to have hoped otherwise, really. Nobody else here would have batted an eye, but Sherlock had always been present of mind. And as John has discovered, he’d been there the whole time. Hiding amongst them, watching him. Sherlock had been coming here even longer than he had; _John_ was the newcomer in this place.  
  
“Were you…” Oh, God. How can he ask this? He doesn’t even want to know, not really. Asking other blokes about their masturbation habits isn’t exactly the standard male bonding practice, is it. But shame is gnawing away at his conscience; he needs validation. He needs to hear someone else say they would have acted no different in his place. That if they were locked in a strange, dreamy environment, with half-naked men and women having sex all around them, that they wouldn’t _occasionally_ need a bit of release themselves. It’s only human, isn’t it? That isn't perverted, is it? Surely Sherlock can understand, sympathise with that?  
  
And the question is already half out there, so… “Did you… Have you needed to? Or have you been tempted, even?”  
  
Sherlock gives no reply, and John can’t read those penetrating eyes that remain fixed on him, studying him. The ornate face of the Fox judges him in cold, hard silence.  
  
_Oh, shame on you, John Watson…_  
  
He goes to press a hand over his eyes, and instead encounters his own mask. That infuriating obstruction, that unwanted weight pressing against his skull, chafing his skin and obscuring his vision. And for a moment it all threatens to be too much— the anger, the shame, the humiliation. He’s ready to spill over. He feels the urge to scream, or run over and throw himself at the doors, promising anything under the sun if only he could forget all this and never come back here again. Instead he clenches his hands into painfully tight fists and wills himself to calm down, counting the beats of the pulse in his ears.  
  
“I didn’t eat the cheese,” he whispers through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t high, I wasn’t… anything.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I thought they were just… It seemed harmless, I didn’t know—”  
  
“I _know,_ John.”

It doesn't make him feel better. But Sherlock turns away, perhaps giving him space to deal with his broiling emotions. Or maybe he’s just bored of this conversation. That's probably it. He’s unimpressed by what he considers a pointless moral crisis on John’s part. And perhaps he’s right; there’s no use in punishing himself over what-ifs, as any good doctor knows. He _is_ a good doctor. He can’t deny it, even weighed down by the guilt of his conscience.  
  
A loud buzzer startles both of them to their feet. Over by the far wall, a mechanism clacks and rattles. Then the doors swing heavily open, revealing the long, narrow passageway beyond.  
  
_Oh, thank Christ. Freedom at last!_  
  
They rush over to the doors. John hefts the weight of their third party over his shoulder, and then they stand at the threshold of the exit back to their own lives. They share a look, a mutual understanding between them: _If this doesn't work, we won’t even remember each other out there…_  
  
“As planned, then?” Sherlock nods. Taking a deep breath, they step through.  
  
The metal doors bang shut behind them, heavy locks clicking back into place. It’s pitch black. John can’t see a thing. He hurries forward, free hand seeking to grip Sherlock’s arm, who uses the wall to guide them both along. They reach a dead end— a door, or maybe a wall, he can't tell. John hears Sherlock throw his weight against it, breath leaving him in a rush of air.  
  
“Locked,” he gasps, his voice tight. John hurriedly places his human luggage against the wall and fumbles at the wall. He runs his hands lengthwise, down and up, into the corners. Anywhere, everywhere. He feels nothing but a blank surface.  
  
“No handles, nothing to grasp,” he exhales. Both of them start banging against it. John kicks it. Once, twice, it won't budge.  
  
Sherlock gives in first, releasing his breath and taking a gulp of air. “It’s no use, John. Just let it…”  
  
John shakes his head, turning and running back towards the ballroom doors. His fists pound into them ineffectually. “Fucking fuck!!” he shouts, his lungs giving in finally and forcing him to breathe. His head instantly begins swimming, his limbs growing weak.  
  
Distantly, he hears a heavy weight crumple to the floor. Then nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

. . . beep beep beep BEEP BEEP **BEEP BEEP BEEP—**  
  
**THUNK!**  
  
…  
  
“Uuhhn…”  
  
_Bright light. Too much. Block out the light. Pillow over the face… Ah, relief._  
  
John lifts his fist from the alarm clock. His head is pounding. What the hell did he drink last night? He doesn’t remember. He can’t remember last night at all. Did he go out with Mike again? He wouldn’t break his promise to Ella, would he? No, not without a good reason.

 _Oh, shit. What day is it? Please let it not be Monday…_  
  
He cracks open one eye and peers over at the digital display: Monday, 4:34PM.  
  
He bolts upright, cursing as a shock of pain pulses behind his eyes. How the hell did he sleep until _half four_ in the afternoon?! His alarm must have been going on all day, and he never heard it? That’s not possible. That’s a giant red flag. Something is very wrong here.

Worst case scenarios flit through his imagination. Blackouts? Stroke? No time for that right now, he needs to call work and let them know… something. God, what the hell is he even going to say to them? _"Sorry I didn’t come in today, I woke up ten hours late"_?

John finds his phone. Five new texts, two missed calls. Both calls: The surgery.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
He calls in, giving his sincerest apologies for not showing up to work. The tongue-lashing he gets over the speaker is like having nails driven into his ears. It sends him into a cold sweat.  
  
Does he have a good excuse? Uh. No, not really. He thinks… yes, he might be ill. Yes, he’s seeing a doctor about it. They want a note? What is he, a child? Oh, fine, he’ll bring a sodding note. Do they want him in today? No, it’s too late. They’ve shut up early today. Lack of staff.  
  
_Fine,_ he thinks tiredly. _That suits me just fine._  
  
They give him a formal warning. He’s been late before, but never _eight hours_ late. This is frankly humiliating. And if it happens again, he’ll be fired. John hangs up and chucks his phone across the room, burying himself back under the covers. What a way to start the week.  
  
He sees Ella on short notice the next day.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, settling him in with a glass of water before taking a seat opposite.  
  
“Awful.” John admits. “I mean, after the last one, everything seemed to be going much better. Thought I had a handle on it. But yesterday…" He rubs his aching eyes, exhaustion written in the saggy creases beneath them. "Yesterday was rough. Woke up late afternoon, alarm blaring. It was the worst yet. And I don’t know if…”

He pauses, searching his tired mind for the words. She gives him all the time he needs, the ineffable patience of a well-experienced social worker. It's a silence carefully crafted to force stubborn clients like him into finishing their awkward, aborted sentences. It’s quite irritatingly effective.  
  
“I’m not sure it’s a… medical issue," he manages at last. "I mean, I don’t know. I’ve got an appointment scheduled. But it feels more like…”  
  
Ella takes pity on him. “You thought perhaps I might be better equipped to help you with this than your doctor, is that correct?” He nods, avoiding her eyes. “That’s perfectly fine, John. I’m glad that you’re pursuing both avenues of investigation. That’s the smart thing to do.”  
  
She sits back in her chair, considering him for a moment. “Let’s assume these aren’t just sleepless nights,” she begins. “There could be a number of other things causing your symptoms. Chiefly, I’d like you to consider the possibility that you may be sleepwalking.”  
  
Is she serious?  
  
“I doubt it,” he huffs. “I didn’t even sleepwalk as a kid.”  
  
“It’s still possible,” she insists. “Adult onset isn’t uncommon, and it can have a variety of triggers. Have you begun any new medications in the past few months?”  
  
He shakes his head. “No, and I know the details. I’m not taking any sedatives, and I get lots of sleep. Well, usually. And before you mention it,” he waves a finger at her, “It’s not the drinking. On my oath, I’ve kept my promise there, Ella. Haven’t had a drop in days.”  
  
She smiles pleasantly. “I’m pleased, John. Well done.”  
  
“Hasn’t helped though, has it?” he shoots back a tight grin. “And to be honest, I’m nearing the end of my rope with this. I was almost fired from the surgery yesterday. What if it keeps getting worse? If you think I’m sleepwalking, then fine. I’ll take your word for it. But here’s my question to you: how can I stop this thing from ruining my sodding life?”  
  
He buries his face in his hands. He doesn't mean to be short with her, but this isn't like him at all, and it’s starting to scare him. John has always held himself to a higher standard, even before his army days. The very idea of sleeping through an entire workday mortifies him. He isn't some lazy gadabout who spends all day lounging in bed, wasting away his life. He wants to be out there, making himself useful.

She looks thoughtful for a long moment. Then, placing her notepad and pen aside, she stands and beckons him towards a long leather sofa. “How about we try something different today,” she offers. “If you’ve been awake at all during these episodes, then we may be able recover some idea about what you were doing or thinking about at the time.”  
  
Ella picks her chair up and repositions it nearer the sofa. “Have you ever undergone hypnosis, John?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Not sure about all this,” John admits, twiddling his thumbs as he lies flat on his back with his eyes closed.  
  
“Shh, don’t force it. Just let your mind invite you there.”  
  
Hypnotism. It was all the rage on TV back in the 90s. John remembers a slew of trashy audience-participation shows, hosted by sleazy self-proclaimed ‘hypnotists’, who bragged of their power to make anyone think they’re a duck, or forget their own name, or bark out ridiculous phrases whenever they heard a certain word.

What a load of bollocks. People aren’t so malleable. He refuses to believe a few whispered words in someones ear can reprogramme their mind like that. The people on those shows were all paid actors, but that didn’t stop them from being some of the most popular material on TV for a while. That’s one trend he’s glad to see the back of.

But this isn’t _that_ kind of hypnotism, apparently. Ella was quite emphatic about making that point. This isn’t about _planting_ ideas, so much as drawing out buried ones from deep within his own psyche. He’s still a little dubious about it, but that doesn’t sound as quacky as the rest, so he’s agreed to at least give it a shot.

Ella had begun by making him listen to an audiotape of peaceful ocean waves and whale-song. And once he’d gotten over the embarrassment, it’d actually been pretty effective at getting him to relax. After ten, maybe twenty minutes of this (he has no idea) all the external world seemed to fall away, reduced to the sounds of his own breathing and Ella’s soft, guiding words.

Right now, he’s floating on a sofa in the middle of the ocean, and there’s nothing around him for miles and miles. Ella’s voice is deliberately serene, drifting over and through him like a gentle breeze rolling over grassy fields. Or maybe the waxing and waning of the tides along a shore at sunset. Something like that. Either way, it's all dreadfully clichéd imagery his mind is dreaming up of its own accord. And despited the jumbled metaphors, she’s successfully managing to guide him down into a deeply pliant and introspective state of mind

He hasn’t felt this peaceful in _years._ He could fall asleep like this.  
  
It’s a weird feeling, being under hypnosis. He’s not entirely sure he’ll get used to it. His mind is adrift as though experiencing a dream, but it’s a much more lucid state overall. He can walk around it, explore it. He controls the dream, and Ella controls him with her voice.  
  
He’s ready, so they begin. She wants him to picture himself at home on the night before his most recent episode. John obediently places himself there. She instructs him to move through the memory as if he were living it again in real-time, focusing on sounds and smells and touch. He’s trying, but his focus keeps slipping. Whenever the image becomes particularly vivid, his first instinct is to chase after it, excited that this is actually working. But it doesn’t work that way. Every time he gets too close, the image vanishes again.  
  
Growing frustration is threatening to ruin his peaceful mood. His words come out slurred in this half-asleep state, his tongue not entirely cooperative. “This is a waste of time, I can’t do it…”  
  
“You’re trying too hard,” he hears in her floaty, ethereal voice. “Let the images drift towards you. Keep your mind’s eye unfocused.”  
  
“That’s easier said than done,” John grumbles. “I’m rubbish at this sort of thing.”  
  
“Start from the beginning, and take it slowly.” _Okay. Stay relaxed. Unfocused._ “You got home late that night, didn’t you?” she prompts him, and the memory of it floats lazily back in front of his eyes. John watches the scene unfold, giving voice to the details as they come.  
  
_There’s an accident on the main road. Cars are being diverted, so I’m taking the long way home._  
  
“Yeah, traffic was a nightmare.”  
  
“And what was the very first thing you did when you arrived?”  
  
_I’m getting out of the car, locking it. Walking to the building. It’s cold out; I can see my breath in the air. Pull my jacket tighter. I’m opening the main door. Checking the pigeonhole for mail; a few bits of junk mail, one bill. I take them with me._  
  
_The lift is out of order again, third time this month. Taking the stairs now, three flights up. I’m out of breath when I get there; should probably skip the lift more often. Taking out my keys, opening the door. I see the kitchen light on._  
  
“It was cold out. I picked up my mail in the foyer and took the stairs. The kitchen light was on when I got indoors; must have left it on that morning. I’d been in a rush.”  
  
“Try not to go backwards,” she notes. “Just focus on what you were doing at the time.”  
  
“Alright…”  
  
_I’m stepping inside, closing the door. It’s cold in here, too. Must call maintenance to check on the heating again before winter sets in. Hanging my jacket on the rack. Considering skipping dinner, but my stomach is growling. Can’t ignore it. There’s leftover pizza in the fridge. Stick it in the microwave while I make tea. I glance at the clock. 8:44PM. Got an early shift at the surgery tomorrow; gotta make sure to get enough sleep tonight._  
  
“I wasn’t going to eat anything given how late it was, but I decided to finish off a bit of pizza before I turned in.”  
  
_The microwave beeps; Pizza’s done. Tea’s made. I chuck the spam in the bin and set the bill aside to look at later. Settling in front of the telly now with my crappy meal. I can hear neighbours in the hall having an argument. I turn up the volume. Roaring laughter from the studio audience. That Stephen Fry bloke is bloody hilarious._  
  
“I watched some telly with dinner. You a fan of QI?”  
  
“John. Focus.”  
  
“Right, sorry.”  
  
_Done eating now. QI’s finished. Checking my phone; nothing new. I didn’t expect anything. Don’t get many calls anymore. It’s usually bad news, these days. That’s how it is when you start getting old; just another friend I haven’t seen or spoken to in years dying somewhere far away. Starting to dread the ringtone, if I’m honest._  
  
_Checking my watch. 9:30PM. Considering going to bed now. Considering how little free time I have anymore. Considering how fucking lonely I am. I don’t even get a chance to meet anyone new. I spend my life at the surgery, and when I’m not there, it’s too late and I’m too tired to go out anyway. I don’t see much point in it anymore. Thinking of the Sig I keep in the drawer beside my bed. I do that sometimes, just think about it. Sometimes I even take it out, feel its weight in my hands. The metal soon warms up. It’s looking friendlier every day._  
  
“John?”  
  
He realises he hasn’t spoken aloud in a while. He wonders what she saw in his expression just then, remembering the darker places he visits sometimes, when he’s alone, and the flat is too quiet and it all seems so pointless. He’s never mentioned it openly, these bleak thoughts. It’s not something he particularly wants to discuss with anyone, especially a therapist. She’d only want to explore it. He’d rather keep it buried as long as possible.  
  
“I just can’t really… It was a normal night. I dunno what else to say about it. I watched telly and thought about life, about work… Just, you know… And then I went to bed. That’s it.”  
  
“Step by step, John. Visualise it.”  
  
_Oh, bloody hell. Fine._  
  
_Turning off the telly. Putting my cup in the sink. Dishes are starting to pile up, I should… Oh, sod it. Another time. Too tired. Switch the lights off, head into the bedroom. Switch the bedside lamp on. Getting undressed. Undershirt and boxer shorts. Keeping my socks on. It’s been getting too cold to sleep barefoot lately. See myself in the mirror; God, I look old. Just as well I don’t meet anyone, looking like a dusty old fossil. Who’d want that sorry creature in their bed?_  
  
“I switched everything off, put my cup in the sink. Went to the bedroom. Looked at myself in the mirror for a bit, thinking about… Well. Feeling sorry for myself.” He admits with a self-deprecating chuckle.  
  
_I set the alarm. 6:30AM as usual. Pull back the cover…_  
  
_…_  
  
That’s odd. Nothing else comes to him, it just stops there. Did he get distracted? He tries that part again.  
  
_I set the alarm. Pull back the cover…_  
  
_???_  
  
He knows what comes next. At least, he _should_ know it. His routine is the same every night, and that night was no different. Wasn’t it? This should be automatic, but he can’t see it. _Why_ can’t he see it?  
  
_Set the alarm. I see the numbers on the display, 6:30AM. The desk lamp is on. I pull back the cover—_  
  
Something touches his face. He flinches. What the hell was that?  
  
“John? Are you alright?” Ella’s voice, somewhere distant. He’s still under, but something made him physically react; he felt it, but he can’t see it. He can’t see… He rewinds and tries again, trying to focus on smaller, periphery details in the scene. What happened to him that night?  
  
_I see myself in the mirror. (The bedroom door is open. The hallway is dark. A shadow moves. I didn’t notice it at the time.)_  
  
_I set the alarm. (I hear a rustle of cloth behind me. A sock falling off the bed… except it isn’t. Somebody’s there. Behind me. Turn around!)_  
  
_I pull back the cover (Something pressed tight over my mouth, can’t breath— struggle, fight back, can’t move—!)_  
  
_(—Hands on me weightless hard surface rumbling cold—)_  
  
“John?”  
  
_(—Danger sex eyes animal Fox death—)_  
  
“John!”  
  
_“Resin, amber. Burning incense. Notes of cinnamon…”_ drolls a strangely familiar, masculine voice. And suddenly the sun is blaring down, blinding him.  
  
_“Contact! Wait out!”_

The desert; Afghanistan. His unit has been ambushed. The sound of bullets whizz past John's ears. He doesn’t reach cover in time.  
  
**POP-POP-POP!** Gunfire all around him. A sudden punch in the shoulder; he’s hit. He looks down at the hole, blood already soaking through his uniform.  
  
_“Watson!”_

His legs give out under him. He’s falling—  
  
“John! Wake up!”  
  
John’s eyes fly open, his chest heaving, struggling for air. He can still see the desert sand, the sun’s glare in his eyes. He’s in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. His heart races, unseeing eyes darting around the room, sweat running down his skin. To him, it’s the trickle of fresh blood.  
  
Ella touches his arm then, her eyes full of concern, but it was the worst thing she could have done. He snatches her arm and shoves her away violently. She recoils in shock. For a moment longer, all he can hear is white noise and screaming in his ears.  
  
Gradually the hissing recedes, and Ella’s office fades back into his sight. Now he can see her. Ella. Not an enemy, _Ella._ She wasn’t trying to hurt him. He sees the fearful look in her eyes, and it takes him a few seconds to understand what she’s afraid of: _him._  
  
“What the f… Oh, Jesus.” He clutches his head. “Sorry… I— I’m so sorry. Give me a minute…”  
  
He sits up, cursing himself under his breath. That hasn’t happened in a long time. It’d all felt so real.

A glass of water appears in front of him. His hands are shaking, but he manages to hold on and take an unsteady sip. He draws his knees up, resting his head against them, and has a sudden urge to laugh at himself. To have worked himself into such a state in his therapist’s office… She must think he’s truly gone off the deep end now, if she didn’t already.  
  
“Shh, it’s alright John. Just take deep breaths. That’s it. You’re safe here.”  
  
It’s all he can do to concentrate on slowing his heart. He takes a series of long, steady breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth; a technique she taught him during one of their first appointments, just after John had come home from the war. He used to get flashbacks like this all the time back then, but not so much these days. This one had been a doozy, the worst in quite a long time.

Especially since lately, instead of gunshots and blood, it’s blank hours and ripping headaches. John isn’t sure which is worse.  
  
Eventually his nerves settle. He shifts over, bringing his feet to the floor. He feels more than a little sheepish. She’s been so patient with him, but that look of fear in her eyes just now is something he knows will haunt him for a long time.  
  
“Sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean to… I must have drifted off. Ended up having a flashback,” he looks at her apologetically. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
She shakes her head, tells him not to worry. She looks unharmed, he's relieved to see. In truth, he could’ve easily leapt up and snapped her neck in one smooth motion. Thank Christ he isn’t that far gone. It would have been automatic; his body operating on auto-pilot, an unconscious fight-or-flight response reacting to a perceived threat. He would only realise it moments later, when his higher functions came back online and took back control from his lizard brain.  
  
_Imagine that; waking up to find someone dead at my hands. I couldn’t ever let it get that far. Rather me than someone innocent._  
  
He guesses he’d slipped into a nightmare, reliving the fateful tour of duty that had nearly killed him. It _had_ killed a few of his friends. His shoulder aches at the memory. Being shot feels like a blunt force impact at first, but soon the pain is like nothing else he’s ever experienced in his life. The blood had soaked a river down his uniform, and the resulting scar left him permanently marked, body and mind.

He had confronted his own mortality that day. He’d thought he was going to die. Sometimes, he wonders if he didn’t actually die that day; maybe he wasn’t supposed to come back at all. His civilian life ever since has felt like a sort of purgatory, waiting for a resolution that never comes.  
  
Ella takes his hand between hers. Mighty brave of her, he thinks, considering what he just did. What he’d _almost_ done. But perhaps she senses the change in him, the easing tension. He’s calming down. The nightmare is gone; he’s back to himself. Mostly.  
  
“You’re okay,” She repeats, squeezes his fingers in a gesture of reassurance. It’s comforting. He appreciates it. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.  
  
“Not really.” He just wants to go home.

In the end, this had been a horrible idea. He hadn’t learnt anything new. Maybe a few odd details he hadn’t noticed before; a weird shadow, a noise behind him. The memories were already fading again. Most likely that was all just the product of his fucked-up psyche, neurons firing blindly as he fell asleep, stirring up nightmarish imagary. The transition between memory and dream felt seamless; he couldn’t tell exactly when one had begun melting into the other.  
  
And after, it had just devolved into a series of fleeting images and random sounds, smells he didn’t recognise. He thought he’d heard a voice, maybe. Something about… Incense? Maybe not. Who knows. None of it was real, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway, he’s pretty sure he could tell if someone had broken into his flat.

He knew his situation was bad, but he hadn’t realised he was _this_ messed up in the head. Christ, that was frightening. But perhaps it’s better to know about it now. He thinks he wants to go home, dig out his Sig from the drawer and just hold it for a while. Let it tell him what to do next.

Ella studies him for a moment, before releasing his hand. “Okay. I think we should call it there, yes? We can pick this up again next session, if you want to.”  
  
John thinks that’s almost the best idea he’s ever heard, second only to never doing anything like that again. Not next session. Not ever.

 

* * *

 

 

Back at home, John calls and cancels his doctors appointment. He’s not sick after all, just sick in the head. He thinks about the gun; he thinks about it for a long time. But he doesn’t take it out. He’s not quite there yet, but this is pushing him closer to it every day.  
  
That night, he dreams of chasing a fox through a dark forest. He follows it around a thick tree, but when he reaches the other side the fox is gone, and suddenly there’s something cold pressed to the back of his skull.  
  
_“Idiot,”_ he hears in a low, mocking voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Suicidal thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

John startles awake, the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears and mysterious words echoing through his mind.  
  
_“Resin. Amber…”_  
  
_Ugh, not again._  
  
He sits upright with a groan, neck stiff and aching from the crooked position he was left in against the arm of the sofa. This place is about as welcome to him now as a rash on his arse. It’s bad enough, watching this thing ruining his ‘real’ life. Powerless to stop it. He can’t even warn himself. Even if he could find a pen, write some kind of message, it would never slip past the exit.

If this is some sort of dream then he can’t very well write himself a note and expect it to still be clutched in his hands when he wakes up. That’s just silly. Nothing in the dream is real, except for him; the note would vanish along with his memories. And if there’s actual _people_ involved — if John really is being kidnapped — then whoever it is will spot anything he tries to smuggle out while they've got him gassed unconscious.

To make matters even worse, he’s now having to share this horrible experience with some rude, arrogant tit, who apparently can’t stand John’s company for more than ten minutes without snapping at him.

He’s an odd one, that Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. Who would ever guess the papers’ favourite super-sleuth would be tied up in something like this? The only way it would make sense is if this really is a dream, and John’s own mind is inventing a new character for him to interact with. And he has to wonder if the Fox’s mercurial mood-swings are a product of his own self-loathing conscience; what better way to feel worthless than by comparing himself to a man embodying flawlessness in every conceivable way?

And he is, at that. Flawless. He’s seen Sherlock in the papers; the man is devilishly good-looking, slim, athletic. A bit on the pale side, but that’s not in itself unhealthy. Then there’s his keen eyes, and his razor-sharp intellect. The man practically won the genetic lottery, didn’t he?

Okay, he’s also arrogant and short-tempered. So maybe just a _bit_ flawed. But that part’s not so much his fault, as John is projecting his own feelings into the man’s responses. Compared to that ideal, John is just a small, sad, rapidly ageing man, with nothing of worth to offer the world anymore. So of _course_ Sherlock would have no time for someone like him.

The others are still here— the Masquerade’s ever-present, zombie-like participants. All victims. Stolen from their homes and made to live in their own squalor, fed drugs until they’d forgotten any other life existed. This place is a horror-house dressed up in comfort and finery, designed to lure and enthrall, the ugly truth of it concealed. And John wonders if they all started out like him— visitors brought here and sent home every few nights, until they were used to it, until their guard was let down, and then tempted with poisoned food to have them seal their own fates.

If not for Sherlock, his imaginary brow-beater, he’d be one of them by now.  
  
God, this is worse than any nightmare. At least with nightmares, you start off in a bad place and then you wake up in the comfort of your own bed. Here, it’s the complete sodding opposite.  
  
And it’s easy to see why he’d almost fallen under its spell. The place is decadent, the atmosphere deliberately seductive. Maybe John is just susceptible to an environment like this. He always has had a healthy libido. There was a time not so long ago that he would be out on the pull almost every night. Not with any huge amount of success, he has to admit, but he’s always been keen.  
  
Perhaps in its own way, dating had become a replacement for the constant danger he’d grown used to at war: the adrenaline under fire, the rush of endorphins after a successful mission. It charged him like a battery. It made him feel _alive._ Dating was sort of like that, except you aren’t so much fearing for your life— just your ego. Either way, the goal is to not get immediately _shot down,_ if you can at all help it.

Back home, life is all too… safe. Too clinical. Not far removed from the dreary hospital ward he’d spent weeks recovering in before the Army sent him home. The worst he had to fear as a civilian was catching a virus from a patient at the surgery. It’s not such a stretch then, to think that in the absence of mortal danger he’d come to seek his thrills elsewhere.  
  
But he doesn't consider himself a _'serial dater'_. He doesn’t pick up women with the intention of just having one night stands with them. He genuinely wants to find someone who could be his best friend and partner and lover all rolled into one admittedly optimistic prospect. The fact that all the women John has _occasionally_ managed to bring home with him inevitably leave isn’t something he ever plans for.

And well, that’s fine too, he supposes. He’s all but given up on that front. John is a little too old for all that now, anyway. He’s missed the boat. Before his deployment, it’d been too risky to become attached to someone if there was a chance he wouldn’t be coming back home alive. And after that… Well. He’s not sure his personality suits a long-term partner, anyway. By all accounts, nobody can put up with him long enough to matter.

But, wait— what if that’s just it? What if someone has been watching him all this time, tracking his behaviour? Picking him out of the crowd: _“Yes, that one. Unattached, lead by his dick more than his brain; he’ll be perfect.”_ Is that what people see in him? The very thought turns his stomach. Maybe everyone here was carefully chosen for their empty social lives and sexual proclivities. Easy targets that nobody would miss. That would go a long way towards explaining why he’s not heard anything about this on the outside, in the papers or on telly. Nobody would notice a mass disappearance of a bunch of homeless people.  
  
Snapping out of his thoughts, John notices the table is gone from the centre of the hall. The space it occupied is conspicuously bare and clean; not a trace remains of the feast or the chaotic mess the others left in the area. And now that he really looks at it, John sees that the floor has been wiped down, furniture set right, and nothing at all looks out of place.  
  
Something else is missing, too. Or more precisely, someone— he doesn’t spot Sherlock anywhere.  
  
John calls out to him across the hall, but there’s no response. Well, that had certainly been a very _brief_ hallucination. He’d be somewhat relieved, except that there could still be a murderous lunatic stalking him from the shadows. And though the Fox may well just be a product of his lonely imagination, he’d still feel a lot better having someone watching his back— if only to bring an illusion of safety.

He checks the other rooms in the building, clearing both wings, but there’s no sign of the detective, and it doesn’t appear that anyone else has been back there since they’d pored through them that night looking for secrets.  
  
But someone _has_ been in the ballroom, he can tell. And nowhere does that become more disturbingly evident than as he makes his way down the central hallway beneath the big clock: the woman’s body they found a few nights ago, that John had covered in the sheet, is gone. The cloth he’d laid over her has been placed back on the bench as if he’d never disturbed it.

Sherlock wouldn’t have moved her. _Couldn’t_ have, either way.  
  
_Bloody hell. I hope the others didn’t get hungry…_  
  
John is hesitant to revisit the place his mind has helpfully labelled _The Murder Room,_ but for the sake of thoroughness it has to be done; it’s the only place left that Sherlock could be hiding.  
  
Opening the door cautiously, John expected to see one of several things: Sherlock standing there, doing God-knows-what by himself in the dark. Or someone jumping out to murder him, probably giving him a heart-attack in the process. Or Sherlock, doing the the jumping and the murdering. He wouldn’t be too surprised by any of those things. At this point, John is pretty sure the man is either imaginary, or he’s really the killer.

What John hoped to find, if he’s honest, is an empty room. What he sees instead ranks very high on the list of things he absolutely _didn’t_ want to find: another dead body.  
  
That is, assuming it’s dead. This is a new one. Male. No clothes, except for his mask— a dragon’s head. John remembers seeing him a few times before, mingling with the others. Poor sod. He’s lying in the same position they found the woman in, face down in the centre of the room.

This leaves John with an unfortunate dilemma: there’s nobody to watch his back if he approaches the figure, and he needs to check for signs of life. He could just shut the door, pretend he never saw this. But the doctor in him, the honest, _moral_ man that he is, won’t allow it. John can’t leave. But he’s also keenly aware that they never did properly clear this room. It’s still dark inside, too dark to see the walls. And since people keep turning up dead in here, it would be a stupidly risky move to go in unarmed.  
  
Thinking quickly, he remembers the letter opener Sherlock handed to him before. Where did he put that? He must have left it somewhere.

Pulling the door of _The Murder Room_ closed for now, he hurries back across the hall to the cluttered room and begins rifling through the desks. The knife isn’t there, and he finds nothing else he could use as a makeshift weapon. Back in the ballroom, he searches the floor and seats and along the walls where the pair of them had sat waiting for the doors to open. Nothing. It’s lost.  
  
_Hell. Now what?_  
  
Glancing around, he notes one of the chairs looks structurally weak enough to be broken apart. Grabbing it, he brings his foot down heavily on one of the legs, snapping it off with a satisfying crunch. The wooden stick is lightweight, and probably more likely to give someone a splinter than knock them out, but it’s all he’s got.

Back at _The Murder Room_ (he's starting to regret giving this place a nickname) he carefully opens the door again, peeking his head inside.  
  
The atmosphere in here is cold. Colder than the rest of the place. The room lies in silence. Motes of dust float in the light spilling around his shadow. Beyond, his target lay motionless on the smooth, concrete floor.  
  
_Alright. Just need to get close enough to grab a leg. Easy does it…_  
  
Hugging the wall, he sidesteps into the room, holding the chair leg up and poised to swing. Squinting, he can’t see further than a few inches through the gloom. He comes up level with the body, and from there has no choice but to move in, leaving the safety of the wall and exposing his back. He’ll have to do this quickly. Stepping in reach of a foot, John bends down slowly to take hold of it around the ankle. Heart thumping in his chest, he starts dragging the body back towards the door, throwing caution to the wind in his retreat. He makes it back out into the hall, body in tow.

Nobody gave chase. No madmen sprung from the shadows with axes to murder him. That was, thankfully, entirely anti-climatic.

He checks for a pulse on the man, but he can already see well enough that he’s dead. Has been for a while. The blotches forming on the skin indicate a similar interval of death as the previous victim. John hasn’t been here long enough this time for it to have happened while he’s been awake; the man must have died before he got here.  
  
The tattoo on his wrist marks him as #3. The girl from before was #2. Did they miss #1? Perhaps Sherlock already discovered someone before John began coming here? No, wait… That’s not possible. There _was_ no Sherlock here before John.

He makes a mental note to ask him about it anyway, when— _if_ he ever appears again.  
  
Staring down at the body, John is certain he’ll end up dying here too, eventually. He takes a moment to consider it. Would he really mind? Outside this place, his other, unaware self has been considering bringing an abrupt end to his own life for some time. But in here, he feels different. Here, something is happening to him. This is dangerous. It's _exciting_. There’s a mystery behind it, and a purpose for him being here— whether he’s going mad or not, he doesn’t want this to end before he knows what’s going on.

He’s not prepared to die like this; trapped, confused, and powerless to defend himself. If anything, he’d rather his death be his own choice. This is being hunted. This is being preyed upon. And John is not going to allow himself to be anyone’s sodding _prey._  
  
John knows what he has to do: Save these people from this hell, and get out of here alive.  
  
He heads back to the ballroom. First order of business is to perform a head-count. Of the ones he can readily spot, he estimates there’s about forty people here, ages ranging from roughly 20s to 60s — thankfully no teens or kids — and all of them tattooed. Those dead so far have been #2 and #3, and John searches the room until he finds what he's looking for.

Eventually he’s standing before an older woman, who smiles up at him from beneath a colourful butterfly mask.  
  
“Wotcha, number Four. It’s about time we started breaking the rules, don't you think? Come with me, lass.”  
  
John takes her aside, easily guiding her away from the main group and into the quiet of the library. He seats her in a corner of the room, and she looks up at him with black saucers for eyes and a sloppy grin on her face.  
  
“There you go, love. You’re alright,” John coos, crouching down beside her. “I’m going to keep you safe in here. Don’t go anywhere, okay? There’s a good girl.”  
  
Her hands reach out to him, clutching at his vest. “C’mere,” she purrs, licking her lips, and moves to pull him down onto her, but John carefully pries her hands off and places them back at her sides. The pitiful sight of her inspires a sympathetic smile.  
  
“Maybe some other time, love.”  
  
After a summary check of her vitals, he covers her with a scavenged silk sheet and settles himself into a nearby chair. There, with a view of the door, he stays guarding her for what feels like an eternity.  
  
His plan was to stay here and ignore the doors when they opened, not leaving her side, not even to pee— he relieves himself in the furthest corner of the room when the need arises. Whatever it takes, he’ll keep her safe. Even if he has to watch her every minute of the day.  
  
But the hours wear on and on and _on_. John periodically checks down the hall, calling in the hopes that Sherlock has magically appeared in the interval, but he remains frustratingly alone. He paces the room with the old girl, staying active to ward against encroaching fatigue, but it’s a losing battle.

He does squats for a while. Then, he picks through some of the shelved books — titles in all languages, all of them apparently children's stories. He spots a few old favourites of his in amongst the pile. But he’s struggling to focus long enough to read the spines, let alone their contents, and in any case it seems like a bad idea to start reading right now. He has a habit of taking a book with him to bed, primarily because it’s so effective at lulling him to sleep.  
  
Checking the ballroom clock again, John realises he’s been here for almost _twelve hours_. He’s getting pretty damn thirsty by now— he could murder a cup of tea. For a panicked moment he wonders if he’s already missed the doors, but that buzzer is _loud_ — loud enough to hear even from the library, he's certain. Wearily, he heads back here, but he can’t ignore the creeping dread rising in his empty stomach.  
  
Four hours later, he catches himself dozing in his chair. He stands, stretching his tired limbs. He checks on his companion again; she’s asleep for now, tucked in under the silk sheet. Her corner of the room smells of urine, and so does another corner of the room, and between the two there’s a certain level of saturation being attained in the air; the unpleasant smell stings his nostrils. If there’s one thing this place desperately needs, he curses, it’s a bathroom.

How the hell the rest of them fare in here day-to-day, he doesn’t even want to guess. God forbid he’d ever have to stay long enough to find out.

Eight more long, miserable hours somehow pass. John is fast asleep in his chair when the doors finally buzz. He leaps up, and is already sprinting out of the room when he remembers his mission. He looks over and is gladdened to see her there; still alive, still safe, despite his faltering vigilance. And he's convinced that as long as he stays with her, she’ll remain that way.  
  
He listens to the buzzer echoing down the hallway: _Freedom,_ it beckons. _Escape while you can!_ And his fists clench so hard his knuckles turn white, and he hovers in the doorway, defying the noise. No, this time is going to be different.  
  
_Not today, you sorry wankers. I’m not jumping through your hoops any more._  
  
A few minutes later the sound of the buzzer shuts off, and John hears the heavy doors slam shut. This is unknown territory now; he never would have dreamt of staying here willingly before today. Lowering himself tiredly back into the chair, he wonders how long he can last like this. He can’t stay awake forever. And pretty soon he’ll be in dire straits without something to drink and eat. They’ve yet to bring anything or anyone inside while he’s been here, perhaps to avoid the risk of exposing themselves to attack. Smart choice, he begrudgingly admits, because if he ever comes face-to-face with the person locking him up in here, he’s going to punch their bloody lights out.

Whatever the case may be, he can’t imagine they’d let everyone else starve to death just because he’s _cheating._  
  
No, this was the right decision. He’s sure of it. John is playing by his own rules now, and it’s the enemy’s turn to either adapt their strategy, or lose. In the meantime, he just needs to rest his eyes for a bit. Just for a minute or two…


	7. Chapter 7

John wedges the last remaining folder into the cardboard box next to a stack of work logs and his framed diplomas, which were proudly displayed on the walls of his office up until about thirty minutes ago.

He’s been fired.

Management is not entirely unsympathetic to his plight— they’ve put him in touch with a specialist who deals with sleep disorders, and they’ve wished him luck — but they simply can’t continue to operate a busy surgery with doctors who randomly don’t show up for hours or days at a time.

Yesterday had been the final straw. For them, and for John.  
  
He doesn’t linger. He wants to get out of here as soon as possible. Preferably, he doesn’t want to see his old colleagues or his patients again for as long as he lives. And ordinarily that might’ve been a problem, because he’s bound to bump into one of them sometime, in the street, or in the park, or while out shopping in Tesco. And they’ll give him a pitying smile, and touch his arm, and tell him how sorry they are for what he’s going through, and tell him he was a good doctor, really.

It sickens him. But he won't have to worry about that, after all.

As he carries his belongings through the staff break room, the friendly well-wishes and touches from his (former) colleagues barely register. He feels oddly detached from it all, as if watching himself from a distance. His efforts to smile cordially and thank them for all their kindness and understanding feels automatised. Inside, he feels numb.  
  
_‘Depersonalisation: An alteration in the perception or experience of the self, so that one feels detached from and as if one is an outside observer of one’s mental processes or body.’_  
  
He’s no psychologist, but even general practitioners are trained to spot the classic signs of depression. Not that he needed any more evidence, but at least he has an understanding of just how low he’s sunk. And it should make him feel angry, perhaps, but he doesn’t feel… anything . Just empty.  
  
John had lost an entire day yesterday. It was just missing. _He_ was missing. And he’s well past the point of exhaustion as he exits into the parking lot at the back of the building, heading towards to his car.

He drops the boxes in the boot with a heavy thud and shuts the lid, squashing them a little. Then he takes a final, dispassionate look back at the surgery, and the job that had been the lifeblood of his existence here in London. Without his job, there’s nothing left to tie him here. And London’s too expensive a place to live on just his Army pension. He’ll have to move out of the city and find somewhere cheaper to live. Even then, he’ll still need a job, if anyone would even have him after this.  
  
But this is just going to keep happening, isn’t it? And he keeps revisiting the idea of seeing a doctor and getting a scan, like he was originally going to. Rule out the worst case scenarios: tumours, stroke. Logically, he knows the importance of getting these symptoms checked out as soon as possible, to have the best chances of treatment and survival. On the other hand, getting brain surgery on the NHS isn’t the most appealing idea, and with no job and no real savings to speak of, going private isn’t an option for him. So if it did turn out to be something medically serious, well that’s just another level of suffering to add to the pile, isn't it? And in his current frame of mind, he’d rather not know it if he’s under a death sentence.

But it won’t matter for long. He’s made up his mind now.

He’s given up. Something is killing him, slowly but surely. He doesn't know what it is, but he’s not going to just sit back and let it happen. The idea of growing old and infirm and losing his mind has never sat easy with John. He’s long played with the idea that he would end himself before that had a chance to happen. Was it selfish? Maybe. Probably. But it isn’t as if anyone will really miss him. He has no spouse, no kids. Half his family is estranged, the rest of them already dead. He doesn't have anything or anyone to live for anymore.

If his number is up, he’ll go out with a bang— not a whisper.

Thinking of family, he takes out his phone and scrolls through the short contact list. He thumbs the screen and holds it to his ear, resting his weight against the car door. After a moment, she picks up.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Hi, Harry. Been a while, hasn’t it. How are you?”  
  
“Me? I’m good, thanks… John, are you alright? Has someone died?” She sounds okay. A little surprised to hear from him, no doubt. He might have caught her during a rare moment of soberness. Then again, it’s been an age since they last spoke to each other. Maybe she’s cleaned herself up a bit since then.

 _Has someone died?_ No, not yet. A sharp emotion stabs at his gut, but he tamps it down. “No, I’m fine. I’m good, everything’s fine. Um, I was wondering… how about we have lunch sometime soonish? You know, just for a natter. Catch up on life, that sort of thing?”  
  
“Oh? Lunch? Erm, sure, we could do that. This weekend, maybe? Are you sure everything’s alright?”

He can’t blame her for being sceptical. The last time they had a proper conversation was two Christmases ago; it had ended with thrown plates, and the exchange of some incredibly hurtful words. John had expressed a hope that he would never see or hear from his sister again so long as he lived.  
  
The time limit there had admittedly come much sooner than he’d expected.  
  
“Yeah, I just…” His voice falters, and he clears his throat to cover it. “Maybe it’s time we made up. It’d be nice to see you again.” _One last time,_ he doesn’t say.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I’ll text the details, then.”  
  
“Righto. Oh, gotta dash— someone’s on the other line. We’ll talk more at lunch, okay?”  
  
“Gotcha. Seeya then, kiddo.” John hangs up.

That went alright. The tough part will be doing it in person, when he can see her face and has to look into her eyes and lie to her. _I’m fine, Harry. Just felt like it was time to finally bury the hatchet. Reason? No reason at all. I’m certainly not planning to kill myself a few hours after we’re done here._  
  
He stifles a yawn. Time to go. He gets in his car and starts it up. The radio flicks on automatically; they’re playing some old song from the 80s. The singer’s voice peaks and falls mechanically to the tune of a harsh electronic synth.  
  
_{Here in my room}_  
_{Where the paint dries like your face}_  
_{I'm still confusing love with need}_  
  
Blinking sleep out of his eyes as he makes his way onto the main road, John considers how to spend his last days on earth; might as well make the most of it. There’s a Chinese restaurant a few streets from his flat — nothing too fancy or expensive — which in John’s opinion makes the best Chicken Chow Mein he’s ever tasted. That’ll be item number 1 on his hastily put-together bucket list. Then maybe on Friday night he could rent a whole movie theatre and have himself a Bond marathon. Spy flicks have always been one of his greatest guilty pleasures.

That might be a bit too short notice, though. He’ll have to give them a ring later and see if they can accommodate him.  
  
_{Tonight at 10}_  
_{I'll cry for a while}_  
_{They'll get me for sure}_  
_{It's just a question of time}_  
  
Number 2 sorted then, unless they can’t do it. In that case, he could just go out and buy himself a big fancy home theatre and order some food in at the flat. Actually, he’d prefer that. The comfort of his own crappy little home. He can’t afford a new telly, but he can drain his savings account, max his credit card. There won’t be anyone they can saddle his debts with once he’s dead. Silver linings to everything.

He can’t suppress a cheeky grin at the idea; he’ll get hell from the landlord for noise complaints. But it’ll be a satisfying final bit of revenge for all the nights his neighbours have kept him awake with their own inconsiderate racket.  
  
The third item on his list would be his lunch with Harry, and that’s the one he’s most worried about. Not his idea of fun, by any means. But he feels he owes it to her to give his forgiveness and reconcile their relationship before he goes. If nothing else, the hopeless romantic in him hopes it might help to ease her grief after he’s gone.  
  
_{Some things I do}_  
_{I feel so ashamed}_  
_{But I have run of points of view}_  
  
He leans against the window with an elbow, using his hand as a headrest and scrubbing over his dry, tired eyes. He’s aching to get home and take a nap. The road stretches out ahead of him, largely empty in the midday lull of traffic. The central lines blur into each other as they drift past.  
  
_… “ Resin, amber. Burning incense.” … “It isn’t your fault she died.” … “Turn around. Idiot.”_  
  
Those eyes… The Fox…  
  
There’s a chilling screech of tires, and John’s eyes fly open _(? When did I— Oh, Christ—!!)_ a split second before the collision, just long enough to register himself cruising down the wrong lane of the road, straight into an oncoming minivan. He sees their faces just as the impact sends John’s car into a violent spin, and he’s gripping the wheel as it plows over the verge by the hard shoulder. There’s a shriek of scraping metal as it pitches over onto the passenger side and skids down into the grassy ditch, coming to an abrupt halt and jamming the horn on.

John is still gripping the wheel so hard his fingers hurt, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, heart galloping at a hundred miles an hour in his chest.  
  
His mind is paralysed for several minutes. The song on the radio fades out, and is replaced by the voice of the DJ chattering pleasantly over the airwaves. When he’s reasonably sure he must still be alive, John peels open his eyes to survey the fallout.  
  
Smoke billows out of the hood of the car. The pungent smell of gasoline chokes the air, and he can taste it in the back of his throat. He’s badly shaken, but after a quick look down at his torso and legs, he doesn’t spot any obvious injuries; he’s not pinned, no steering column through his chest or other such horrific possibilities. But his neck is seizing with pain— most likely whiplash. It'll probably need a brace.

His immediate concern now are the people in the other motor.  
  
_I could’ve killed someone… I could have… might have… Oh, please let them be alright. Don't do this to me…_  
  
He’s praying to every divine figure he knows the name of as he undoes his seatbelt with shaky fingers, then shoves upward at the door until it clatters open, dented and gouged. He climbs out of the wreck, grabbing fistfuls of long grass as he clambers up the hill towards the road and the scene of the crash. He spots the minivan several feet along the road, twin tracks of burnt rubber marking the road under its rear wheels, surrounded by bits of debris and broken glass.  
  
The rear of the vehicle is crumpled inward like a tin can, but the van’s occupants — the driver, a middle-aged woman, and her passenger, a man, probably her husband — look uninjured from this distance. They’re getting out of the van, looking somewhat dazed. Relief washes over him.  
  
“You all okay?” John calls, his head still swimming as he jogs over to them. “Is there anyone else in the back?”  
  
“No, we’re fine,” the woman responds. Then, turning to her husband, “Wes, call an ambulance for him.”  
  
John waves the suggestion away. “I’m fine, I wasn’t hurt,” he says. “But maybe call the police. And probably the AA.”  
  
She gives him an odd look. “I really think you need to get that seen to,” she says, pointing at John’s eye level. Touching his face, he realises its wet, and when he pulls his hand away his fingers are covered in deep red blood.  
  
“Oh,” he says rather stupidly.  
  
The couple urge John out of the road and sit him in the passenger seat of their van, until the various emergency services arrive on the scene. Paramedics tend to his head wound; it's not as bad as it looks, after all. Head injuries tend to bleed a lot and scare people, but thankfully this wasn’t more than a scrape. They suggest he should get stitches for it, but John refuses the visit to hospital. That’s the _last_ place he wants to be right now.

He thinks about asking for a brace, but he decides to keep his neck injury to himself, for the same reasons.  
  
The police take statements from everybody, and John is made to take a breathalyser, which he passes with a 0 blood alcohol result. He explains his blackouts, admitting he’d been driving under very little sleep. Unsurprisingly, they slap him with an immediate fine, a court summons, and an order to have his condition fully investigated as soon as possible. His license is also temporarily revoked— not that he has a working car to drive anymore.  
  
When he’s finally free to go, John is about to call a cab to take him home when a sudden whim changes his mind, and instead he finds himself redialling Harry's number.  
  
“Harry.” There’s no disguising the unsteadiness in his voice now; he can barely croak out the words. “I’m not okay.”

 

* * *

 

  
To her credit, Harry immediately dropped her plans for the day once John had told her about the accident, driving the five miles to pick up John from the roadside and take him home— _her_ s, not his own. He was too tired to argue it.  
  
Presently, they’re sitting in Harry’s living room. A fresh cup of tea sits steaming on the table in front of John, who nurses his aching head between his hands, willing himself to stop shaking. And Harry is pressed close beside him, her arm wrapped reassuringly over his shoulders, hugging him close.  
  
Eventually John is calm enough to start telling her everything that’s been happening to him, that culminated in him falling asleep at the wheel. How they’d started off as small, brief events, missing hours chased by lingering headaches. He wasn’t worried about them at first, but then it started happening more frequently, and for greater periods of time, and the headaches were getting worse, and he felt terrified he was losing his mind.  
  
She listens quietly, allowing him to spill out his heart uninterrupted, and John finds himself unable to stop himself telling her everything, even his plans to end it all this very weekend. The confession elicits a choked gasp, and her hand clutches him even tighter.  
  
“Oh, John…” she whispers as he breaks down, turning to her. She holds him for a long while, rocking them gently.  
  
When at last he runs out of tears and pulls himself together enough to speak again, he pulls away, wiping his face. “God, look at the state of me,” he coughs, laughing weakly at how pathetic he feels to be letting anyone, especially his sister, see him like this.  
  
“Feels better now though, doesn’t it? Getting it all out,” she says, her smile full of concern and love, and the expression makes John’s heart break a little. It’s been so long since they’ve shared any kind of warmth for each other. Hate had replaced it as the default. Seeing that fondness in her eyes takes him back to their childhood, to a time when they had been so much closer.  
  
“I just don’t know what to do,” he says. “I’m at the end of my rope. It’s all I had left.”  
  
“Do what they’ve told you to do, John. Go get it checked out. I know it’s scary, but all this… it could just be another symptom. You know that.”  
  
He nods. Of course he knows that. But it doesn’t change anything. “And what if they don’t find anything?”  
  
She purses her lips for a moment. Her eyes drift to a newspaper folded on the table, and she seems to consider an idea, but isn’t sure whether to ask.  
  
“Go on,” John urges. “At this point, I’ll take anything.”  
  
“Well…” She picks up the newspaper and unfolds it, thumbing through the pages. When she finds what she’s looking for, she spreads it open for John to see. The article details a recent serial murder investigation that has been occupying the news circuit for the past couple of weeks. It was recently concluded with the successful arrest of the perpetrator, thanks in large part to the talents of one Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

The article helpfully mentions that Mr Holmes will consider any case presented to him by concerned civilians, listing contact information and his website URL. Harry taps his picture with a long fingernail. “You’ve heard what this bloke is always saying, haven’t you? ‘When you eliminate the impossible,’ blah blah, et cetera. Well, if they don’t find anything wrong, maybe you could go see him?”  
  
John looks at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You think… Someone might be doing this to me? Someone’s messing with me on purpose?”  
  
She shrugs, shaking her head. “Dunno, but it’s another option, isn’t it? If the doctors don’t find anything, maybe he can help. I’m sure he’d take a look, in any case. I just… I don’t want you to give up, John. Please…”  
  
Her eyes brim with tears, and John suddenly feels like a complete asshole for having scared her like this. And, yes, for giving up. God, how all this has worn him down. What happened to the John Watson he used to know? The brave soldier, the fearless medic who charged into battle and stared death in the face without batting an eye?  
  
“Alright,” he says, squeezing her hand. “I won’t give up. I promise. As long as there’s still another option to take, I’ll take it. I’ll even go see _Sherlock Holmes_ if I have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Suicidal thoughts and planning.


	8. Chapter 8

“John?”  
  
Opening his eyes, a familiar face — or at least, a familiar mask — hovers over him. John hauls himself upright with a wince of pain. “Uhn… Sherlock?”  
  
The man kneels by him. Diffused candlelight dances over his pale face, a muted glow that tints his skin in hues of gold and umber. “You’ve injured yourself.” The tone doesn’t imply a question; rather, an observation.  
  
“That obvious, is it?” John kneads the muscles of his neck and sits back, recalling what happened a few nights ago. “I… had a crash. After the last time I was in here. Stupid really, ended up falling asleep while driving home. It was… I was knackered. Still am, to be honest.”  
  
Sherlock cocks his head to one side. “Last time? That was over a week ago. You’ve had plenty of time to recover from a minor whiplash.”  
  
“No, it was only a couple of days ago,” John frowns. “And on that subject, where were you? I found another body in _The Murder_ — I mean, in the dark room. Where we found that girl. Someone else was killed.”  
  
“Another one?” He stands abruptly, leaning over John. “When was this? You were here alone? What was the tattoo? How long did you stay?” His hands are splayed against the back of the sofa on either side of John’s head. His porcelain face is so close that John feels every word against his lips.  
  
“Woah, woah, slow down. Jesus.” He pushes the looming figure back, reclaiming a few inches of personal space. “I was here, uh… Monday? Or, I guess, Tuesday as well. The longest one yet, it was awful.”  
  
“And the tattoo?”  
  
“Yeah, it was number Three. Speaking of which,” John peers over Sherlock’s shoulder, sweeping the room. “I was looking after the next one. Old lady, butterfly mask. Have you seen her? I stayed put when the doors buzzed, but I guess they kicked me out when I eventually fell asleep. Is she still here?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “You did _what?”_  
  
Slipping out of the cage of Sherlock’s arms, John searches his way through the room. It takes him a closer look than he’d prefer, but he eventually identifies her as the one currently entangled with a young man under one of the archways. The man's cock is buried inside her, and he thrusts lazily, barely conscious enough to keep his hips in the rhythm. Her dinner-plate eyes flick up to John, and she emits a low moan that he can’t help but feel a reluctant response to.  
  
John is grabbed by the arm and spun around to see Sherlock glaring at him intensely. “You stayed here? Willingly? Of all the…” He grabs John’s wrists, holding them up. Then, dropping the left, he turns the right one so John can see it. “Welcome to the club, _Twenty-three._ You absolute idiot!”  
  
John stares mutely at the black ink tattoo on his wrist: #23 in thick, military print.  
  
_Oh. Oh, fuck. What does that mean?_  
  
“I didn’t…” he starts, and Sherlock throws up his hands in an exasperated motion.  
  
“Of course you didn’t think! Why would I expect differently?”  
  
John feels a sudden surge of anger, because Sherlock doesn’t have any more answers than John does, of course, being a figment of his imagination. And is he seriously blaming John for trying? For not being content to just sit back and allow people to die around them? And he’s growing sick and _tired_ of being called an idiot! How could he be so cold about this? So condescending?  
  
“Now hang on. How the hell was I supposed to know this would happen? I was trying to protect her, for Chrissakes! And I did the only thing I could think to try! Maybe if you’d been here—”  
  
“I _was_ here!” he shouts back, making John's jaw snap shut. “I was here on Wednesday, whereupon I found the body of number Seven. And then I left again when the doors buzzed open, which is exactly what _you_ should have done as well!”  
  
John feels the blood rush from his face. Wait… So they were both here… separately? But that means Sherlock is actually, well… real? John isn’t imagining him at all. And suddenly he feels as stupid as Sherlock keeps telling him he is.

He must have arrived very soon after John left last time. And now there were not one, but _two_ more victims.  
  
But number Four is still alive. Had it worked, then? Had staying behind and keeping watch over her somehow spared her in the rules of this twisted game? John hasn’t the faintest idea what it means to be branded with a tattoo, to be officially marked as one of them. But if that’s the cost of protecting them then consequences be damned, he’ll save every last person here and be glad to take their place at the chopping block.

"And besides, you were protecting the wrong one," Sherlock continues haughtily. “She was never in danger of being next.”

John balks at this. "No I wasn't. We found Two, then I found Three. You're telling me you wouldn't conclude that Four comes next? I may be an _idiot,_ but it wasn’t a difficult leap, even for me."  
  
Sherlock simply shakes his head and returns to the sofa, pulling his feet up to rest his chin on his knees. John reluctantly joins him on the opposite end. They sit together in silence; Sherlock apparently lost in deep thought, and John worrying at the black mark on his wrist, the skin still tender and flushed red from its recent application.

 _#23…_  
  
John braces himself for another long, restless stay at the Masquerade.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite their earlier blowout, the frost between them doesn't take long to thaw. John had actually quite missed the annoying git, even if he can be a prat. When Sherlock isn’t being moody, he can actually be quite funny and amiable, and John beginning to realise there are certain topics of conversation that seem to trigger the man’s ire, chief among them being the question of why they’re both here.

Sherlock seems dismissive of the why, and more interested in the how. He thinks there’s some sort of puzzle going on, and that he’s expected to solve it, and it’s a waste of time and brainpower trying to guess the reasons behind it all. So John picks his way carefully through different subjects, and they end up passing the hours talking about life back in what John keeps referring to as ‘the real world’.

“This place is no less 'real,'” Sherlock points out, but when pushed for objective proof of the fact, he dismisses the question as ill-conceived. “The burden of proof is on the one making ridiculous claims against reality.” And John is forced to admit he has a point.  
  
Later, Sherlock talks at length about his casework for the Met, regaling John with tales of murder and intrigue, and all the clever ways he was able to figure out the crimes based on his observations and deductions. And John finds himself eagerly encouraging it. He likes this side of Sherlock, the part of him that enjoys impressing him. It's not just that, though; John watches his eyes light up with life and enthusiasm whenever he talks about his work. The more he learns about this man and his perceptive abilities, the more he finds him fascinating, and Sherlock seems pleased at the effect, visibly preening whenever John interjects to call something ‘amazing’ or ‘brilliant’.  
  
“You say that an awful lot,” he muses, after John can’t help himself for the tenth time.  
  
“Not in general,” John chuckles, and Sherlock flashes an almost demure smile. The fox likes his ego stroked, it seems. And John finds he’s rather enjoying stroking it.

As cutting and cold as that tongue can be, and as much as he seems to be aggravated by John’s presence at times, there’s something genuinely warm in the smile that steals across Sherlock’s face at John’s compliments. And it occurs to John that perhaps the man just isn't used to this sort of social bonding. He claims not to have any friends, that he doesn’t need them. _The work is all that matters,_ he says. But John isn’t so sure about that. If anything, he seems incredibly lonely.  
  
John finds himself staring at those eyes again. Does he realise how gorgeous they are? They flick over to him, catching his gaze briefly before Sherlock turns away, the smile fading from his lips. “So, are you going to go through with it, then? This plan of yours?”  
  
And John can’t be certain what plan he’s referring to. He’s been careful to avoid talking about his situation outside. How close he’d been to ending it all. And Sherlock hardly needs to be told such things; he simply plucks them out of the black fabric of the universe like they’re brightly coloured threads, visible to the naked eye.

But John feigns innocence, choosing to assume he’s referring to the rest of it. “I plan to do what I’ve been ordered to by the courts: See a doctor, get an MRI. They won’t find anything, of course. And then…” He suddenly remembers Harry’s suggestion. “Oh! Heh, you’ll like this. After that, I plan to visit the world’s one and only Consulting Detective.”  
  
Sherlock’s head whips round. “What?”  
  
“Yep! We’ll be ‘meeting’ out there pretty soon, I’d imagine. Blimey, can you imagine? We won’t even know each other. That’s going to be bloody weird when we’re back here, remembering everything.” He laughs. “But if anyone can figure this out, I think you probably can. Maybe we can finally make some progress if both versions of us are on the same page.”  
  
For a moment it seems Sherlock is about to say something, but he changes his mind, lips pressing thinly. It almost looks like a frown, but it’s so difficult to tell with the obstruction of the mask, and John once again finds himself unable to quite read the man’s face. In any event, he’s gone quiet. Was it something he said?  
  
“I’m going for a walk,” he mutters a moment later, and John gets up to join him, but Sherlock’s hand comes up to block him. “Keep a weather eye on the door, will you? Won’t be long. Just need to stretch my legs.”  
  
And then he leaves. John spots him make several brisk laps around the room, occasionally disappearing through one of the archways and reappearing a few minutes later, never enough to leave each other’s sights for too long. Eventually he takes a seat some distance away and tucks his knees under his chin again, looking pensive. John decides to leave him alone for now.

  

* * *

 

 

What are they supposed to _do_ for hours in a place like this?

Well. Evidence of the conclusion the rest of them have drawn is constantly and maddeningly assaulting him from all directions— audibly and visually. But for John, there remains nothing to be done. Not for his suffocating boredom, nor his innervated arousal, which has been steadily building all night to a point of critical insistence.

He reminds himself this is only natural, but it’s still embarrassing. He can hardly hide it, walking around in just his boxer shorts. A stiffy stands out like… Well. What it is. Plain for all to see.

And while it doesn’t bother him so much for any of the rest of them to see him like this — he fits right into the crowd, after all — it _does_ bother him that Sherlock might notice it.  
  
Twelve hours in, John has taken his own walks around the room, periodically checking the others for signs of distress, and he and Sherlock have cycled through pretty much every topic of conversation either of them care to. And Sherlock seems to be avoiding John now, having grown progressively short and snappy as the hours wore on, as has become his typical M.O.  
  
He’d stormed off after John had suggested they play tiddlywinks with some sequins picked off of the furniture, and an empty inkwell he found in the library. He made an affronted huff of a noise, as if to say _I shan’t lower myself to playing such ridiculous children’s games,_ before occupying the sofa and turning his back on the room, positively pouting like a child.  
  
And now John is sitting on the floor several feet away, alone, staring at nothing in particular. Bored. Horny. Miserable.  
  
_I could really do with having a wank._  
  
There’s nothing stopping him, technically. He could disappear into one of the side rooms for a while, but part of him is worried about leaving Sherlock alone for too long. He still isn’t quite sure about the rules of this place, and John doesn’t want to return only to find his stroppy companion gone— or worse, face down and dead like the others in _The Murder Room_.  
  
John finds his gaze drawn back to the figure lying motionless on the velvet cushions. He can’t help but admire it; its smoothness, how slim and elegant his build, a perfect balance struck on the edge of just-a-bit-too-skinny so as to be quite attractive. For a man. What John means is that he looks fit, in the way that his build suits his frame and seems to occupy it with the grace and ease of… well, of a Fox, come to think of it. Whoever picked that mask for him knew exactly what they were doing.  
  
But he doesn’t mean to think Sherlock is _fit_ fit. Not in the way that he finds attractive women fit. Not that he _isn’t_ , now that he really studies him; how the curve of his spine pulls his shirt tight across his back, exposing the hills and valleys of the muscles hidden underneath. And his legs too, drawn up as they are towards his chest, pulling his trousers snug around his glutes and exaggerating the thin crease between his…

Well, alright. He is fit, objectively, scientifically speaking. Nobody could argue the visual qualities of an arse like that. Still, that doesn’t mean…  
  
John isn’t gay. He knows that much about himself. He doesn’t have a _problem_ with it, he just isn’t. And he’s never really questioned himself being straight, but this is admittedly not the first time he’s felt… let’s call it a _visual appreciation,_ looking at another man. He thinks back fondly to a certain Major Sholto, the ruggedly handsome commander of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the unit that had practically been John’s family during his tour in Afghanistan. And he’d surprised himself, feeling that sort of attraction for his very _male_ superior officer. And one thing lead to another… Things just happen in the Army, don’t they?… It didn’t mean anything.

When John had asked him before if this place affected him, Sherlock had practically scoffed at the notion. And he finds that difficult to believe, but maybe he was telling the truth. He’s no expert on human sexuality, by any means, but he knows asexual people exist, and Sherlock might simply be one himself.  
  
_Ah, wouldn't that be a crying shame, though?_  
  
Would it? Not for his own sake. God, no. But what about someone else? Would anyone really want someone like Sherlock Holmes in that way? He’s brash, abrasive. Doesn’t care at all for what he calls _A reckless and hormonal bias that compromises one’s own ability to reason,_ AKA ‘love’. That was a topic that quickly found its way onto the blacklist, after John had made the mistake of innocently asking him about his marital status.

That’s certainly a long and contemptuous way of expressing a lack of romantic or sexual desire, isn’t it? He thinks the man doth protest a little too much, there. So perhaps it’s not so much a lack of those feelings, but an aversion to them?

He seems to think of desire as a weakness people inflict upon themselves. But that implies a choice, doesn’t it? And you can’t choose who you find attractive.

 _Not that I find him… Well, maybe…_  
  
And even if he does hate it, wouldn’t he be affected regardless? John doesn’t _want_ to be aroused by the sight and sounds emanating from the dark corners of the hall, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. And so far, he hasn’t seen any evidence to the contrary— not that he’s been checking.

Well, not too closely, anyway. He may have tried to take an occasional, subversive peek at those silk pajama bottoms while the Fox wasn’t looking, but the results had been inconclusive.

His own insistent physical state can’t have escaped the man’s keen notice. Maybe it bothers him? Is _that_ why he’s been getting so grumpy? He can’t stand to be around John while John is sporting an unkillable hardon? Because that would make a whole lot of sense. John updates his conclusions from ‘asexual’ to ‘straight, and uncomfortable in potentially gay situations’, and finds himself a little disappointed by it.  
  
Sherlock must have witnessed him bringing himself off one of those times, and now being around him is awkward.  
  
_Wonderful,_ John sighs to himself. _He's disgusted by me. Can't keep it in my pants for one sodding day. Now he thinks I'm some sort of pervert._

He’s still idly staring at Sherlock’s back when the man shifts, stretching his long legs out along the sofa’s length as if to get more comfortable. His arm is draped over the dip of his torso above his hips, and it slips further down the front. Then it starts to move, as if… Oh. Is he…?  
  
_Is he stroking himself…?_  
  
The movement is subtle, hard to notice in the dark, but it’s slow and rhythmic. There’s a pulling of the elastic of his pyjama bottoms, and the arm slips further into the hidden space between his hips and the back of the sofa, and John is stunned. Sherlock is very definitely fondling himself right now.  
  
_Well that answers that question, I suppose; He’s_ definitely _affected._  
  
John should really look away now, but he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the sight of it. He shouldn’t even want to watch another man touching himself, but he’s mesmerised. And, oh Christ— it’s undeniably arousing. He was uncomfortably hard before, but the sight of this is making his balls ache with a need for release.  
  
What’s making it worse is that Sherlock clearly thinks he’s being sneaky and getting away with it. It adds a thrill of voyeurism that John honestly had no idea he was into, but yep— watching this is definitely doing it for him. And while there’s not much for John to see from this angle, he can still gauge the detective’s quick progress in the subtle betrayals of his body; the twitch of a thigh, a shudder at his chest, a faltering breath. The small, breathy noises he's making.  
  
John presses a palm against his groin, and it’s all he can do not to whimper in response when Sherlock emits an obviously accidental whine, strained through the effort to keep his activity unnoticed. His movements have sped up considerably in a few short minutes; he’s obviously trying to get this over with quickly, and while John is sorely tempted to take this unobserved opportunity to relieve his own frustration, he isn’t sure he could catch up in time before the man comes. And oh, _there’s_ an unexpectedly arousing thought.  
  
_He’s going to come. He’s touching himself, and he’s going to come, and I’m going to see it happen. And… Fuck me, I really want to._  
  
John can’t help himself any longer— his hand finds its own way into his boxers and begins hastily fisting his own cock, already wet and throbbing with heat. He can’t believe he’s doing this, and he hopes to God Sherlock doesn’t notice.

The sight of Sherlock twitching and curling minutely into himself is doing things to John he never would have imagined from watching another man masturbate. He watches the control slipping away, chemicals of pleasure saturating and cresting in that incredible brain, flooding out any thoughts except the imperative need for release.  
  
_Don’t turn around… Please, keep going… Keep going…_  
  
Sherlock’s breathing grows shallow and rapid, helpless little gasps escaping as he thrusts into his hand, and John’s imagination supplies a helpful image of his cock sliding through the grip of those pale, slender fingers. John wishes so badly that he could see it for real. _This is insane,_ he thinks, but true to form his libido is currently driving him recklessly towards the edge, and John will just have to deal with the guilt and the weirdness of it later, because right now all he wants to see is this man lose himself to the very thing he’s been dismissing as irrelevant to him since they’ve been here.  
  
_So close… Yes— Fuck—!!_

Sherlock’s hips begin to jerk, and his body contracts, his muscles drawing tight and quivering. A low, breathy grunt turns into an elongated moan that wrenches itself out of his lungs as he comes. The sight of it brings John to a sudden, shuddering orgasm, and he has to bite down on his arm to stop himself moaning as his own cock spurts thickly several times into the material of his boxers, twitching in happy relief as he milks himself through several more long, intense waves.  
  
_Christ,_ he curses, burying his face in the crook of an elbow to muffle his heavy breathing. He hasn’t come quite that hard in ages; he must _really_ have needed it.  
  
Coming down from the high, John belatedly realises two important things: First, that Sherlock had apparently been more prepared for this activity than John realised, evidenced by the scrap of material he’s just thrown over the back of the sofa, scrunched into a ball. And second, that John had no such foresight about his _own_ messy eventuality.  
  
_Oh, that’s lovely. Not only have I just secretly wanked off to someone who didn’t know I was watching, but now I have to stew in it until we’re let out…_  
  
A fitting punishment, he supposes. But he can probably find something around here to wipe himself up. John saunters off as casually as one can with cum-splattered underwear sliding against his thighs, and tears a scrap of silk from one of the hanging drapes, cleaning off as much as he can of his newest shame. When he glances back towards the sofa, Sherlock thankfully hasn’t moved from it.  
  
_What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,_ John reasons, and wishes the same were true of himself.


	9. Chapter 9

The clock chimes. An entire day has passed. The doors remain closed.  
  
On the dawn of the second day, John declares that they need to begin organising bathroom breaks for the group, and that it should be in a designated area, rather than wherever they happen to be sitting at the time. He selects one of the side rooms, so that it can be kept shut tight, with the door gap stuffed with sheets. They also need to work out a sleeping schedule — himself and Sherlock — with one always awake and in view of the other, so that neither of them fall victim to any nasty surprises.  
  
The former task Sherlock leaves entirely to John, the lazy git. It doesn’t help that he appears content to be doing nothing useful in the meantime, opting instead to re-inspect the side rooms, stare at someone he calls _"fascinating for all the wrong reasons"_ (John doesn’t enquire further) and sit for long stretches of time with his hands templed under his chin, ignoring everything around him (including John, even when he stands directly in front of him, waving in an attempt to get his attention).  
  
“Stop grousing,” Sherlock mutters moodily later on, as he crouches with his ear pressed against the metal double doors. He twiddles a thin splinter of wood between the gap, delicately sliding it in. “Taking insensate people to the bathroom and wiping up after them is the purview of the medical profession. Ergo, it’s your responsibility. End of story. Now go away.”  
  
John stares daggers at his back, arms folded across his chest like an angry schoolteacher. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock,” John says tersely. “I’m not a nurse, never have been. That’s why I stitch up scrapes and hand out prescriptions, not take care of Alzheimer patients. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to have to practically carry coach-loads of catatonic people there and back, before any of them pisses themselves? Or _on me?_ My back is shot. All I’m asking is for you to help out a bit and do your part.”  
  
“I _am_ doing my part.”  
  
“You’re trying to pick a door that has no lock.”  
  
“Of course it has a lock, just not an externally accessible one. If I can just find—” The stick snaps, and Sherlock glowers at the door, then turns it at John.  
  
“Oh, don’t start. If you’re about to blame me for that…”  
  
“Well? You keep distracting me! I can’t concentrate.”  
  
“Sherlock…” John scrubs his hair. He’s had enough of this. “What is the matter with you? Are you always this bloody moody? All I’m saying is, we need to work together. I’m not trying to distract you, I just wish you’d be a little more cooperative.”  
  
“I’m not _moody,”_ he grumbles, grabbing another splinter of wood from a pile at his feet and turning his attention back to the doors. “I’m just being efficient.” The detective fiddles at the door for another few minutes. The wood slips further in, Sherlock makes a pleased noise. “See? Told you. I think I’m getting somew—”  
  
Every light in the room shuts off simultaneously, and John is about to make some smart comment about tripping the fuse when they flicker back on, except their intensity is suddenly blinding. They begin strobing rapidly. A painfully loud digital scream floods the room.  
  
“Holy Gods, what the fuck is happening?!” John yells, but he can’t even hear his own voice over the shrieking noise, and the pulsing lights don’t give his eyes enough time to adjust. He can’t see anything except for the repeating pattern of white-black-white-black-white. He clutches his head. “Sherlock?!”  
  
He feels a hand grip his arm, and a body draws close. “I’m here!” Sherlock shouts close to his ear, and John grabs hold of him tightly. They sink to their knees together.  
  
Thirty seconds later, the lights go dark, and the deafening noise ends with a lingering echo that John isn’t sure happens in the room, or just inside his head. Then the soft candle glow of before returns, and John tentatively opens his dazzled eyes. The room is back to normal, and they’re clutching each other on the floor in a state of shock.  
  
“…Sherlock?” he says, unsure if he’s shouting or whispering.  
  
“That was… unpleasant,” the detective gasps.  
  
“What _was_ that?”  
  
“John—” Sherlock prods him, pointing across the room. When he looks, he spots two of the guests on the floor, shaking violently. It looks like they have a couple of epileptics in the group.  
  
Cursing under his breath, John runs over to the nearest one, waving his arm towards the other. “Sherlock, tend to that one, please?”  
  
“Me?! But I don’t—”  
  
“Get something soft under him; sheets, pillows, anything. Then move him into the recovery position, but don’t hold him down— he’ll snap his own bones.” Sherlock looks aghast, but hurries to follow John’s instructions. John is keeping his own patient gently in place, waiting for her to ride out the episode, and when he looks over to see Sherlock doing the same thing, he can’t help but give him a proud smile. “See? You’re not bad at this. You’d make a good nurse.”  
  
Sherlock glances up, but for once, he seems to have nothing biting to say back.

  

* * *

 

  
  
Lesson learnt: Don’t mess with the doors. John has to convince Sherlock not to try it again, against heavy protest. They’re trying to save these people, he reminds him, not _add_ to the body-count.  
  
Back on the sofa, John is still nursing a headache from the strobing lights. _Good thing neither of us is epileptic._ Sherlock is pacing back and forth nearby, talking rapidly, but mostly to himself. “…So either the hours or the days are important units, and the correlation between victim and date is probably irrelevant, but how do the primes factor in…?”  
  
“The whats?” John tiredly mumbles, picking some fluff off his knee.  
  
“The primes, John. Why _primes?”_  
  
“Primes?”  
  
Sherlock stops. “Oh, yes. I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but today’s victim was number Five. That means all of the bodies so far—”  
  
“What?” John’s eyes snap up. “Are you saying there was one… today? I mean yesterday? There’s been a body here all this time, and you didn’t bother saying anything?”  
  
“So? It wasn’t important.”  
  
John scoffs. “Right. Not important. Meanwhile, I’ve been added to the tattoo club of people who keep turning up dead, but no, let’s not mention it because it’s _not important._ Well, thanks for that.” He sinks his head into his hands despairingly.  
  
Sherlock fidgets in front of him. Then, shoulders sagging, he comes to sit by John on the sofa. He’s quiet for a while, and John pretends to ignore the mind turning over beside him. Eventually he speaks.  
  
“It’s a pattern. The victims so far- two, three, five, seven. There was no one, no four, and no six. So: The ones dying are prime numbers, and it appears to be happening in ascending order, indicating a sequence.”  
  
John looks at him. “So, what does it mean?”  
  
“…I don’t know.” Sherlock’s fingers play distractedly on his lap. “Knowing who is next isn’t enough to save them by itself, and I can’t find the answer before I know the right question. This only gives me half of what I need.”  
  
_“Is_ there an answer?” John frowns. “Are we supposed to be… figuring something out? Is that what this is? And if we do, they’ll… what, stop killing people? Let us go?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “Maybe… I don’t know. Not enough data.” He meets John’s eyes, and there’s a flicker of some emotion John can’t quite pinpoint. “But if the pattern holds true, it means that we have four more visits to find the answer, before…”  
  
His eyes fall to John’s wrist as his voice trails off, but John can fill in the rest.  
  
_Four more trips. Then my number will be up, and_ I’ll _be the next one he finds dead in that room._

  

* * *

 

  
  
John wonders if they’re going to die in here before they get anywhere _close_ to his turn.  
  
As the second day stretches on, everyone has grown significantly slower, weaker, and thirstier. John does his best to take care of them, but there’s little he can do to ease their suffering— or his own. The doors remain firmly sealed, and there’s nothing to eat or drink, and John’s throat is so dry his voice is croaking like a frog. Sherlock isn’t faring much better.

Earlier, John had swallowed his worry and stolen several much-needed hours of sleep. Sherlock had watched over him with a promise to wake him at the first sign of anything unusual, and he felt safe enough like that to let himself drift off.  
  
John had found himself slipping into an odd dream in which he was lying naked, under a bright summer sunshine, on a plastic tarp in the middle of a swimming pool. He didn’t dare move; he knew that upsetting the surface tension would cause him to be dragged down between the folds, sinking underwater with the tarp closing in around him, sealing him inside like a fairground goldfish.  
  
But then someone had come strolling over the tarp like Jesus walking over water, and as he lowered himself over John’s body, the tarp moved to do exactly that. And John began to panic, but then the man whispered in a low baritone in his ear that he wouldn’t let him drown. _Trust me,_ he said, and for some reason, John knew that he could.  
  
Then the man reached between them with slender fingers and began stroking them both together, and John understood. He held on, letting him slide against John’s hardening length as they sank together beneath the water. The man pressed his soft lips to John’s, and as his warm tongue invaded his mouth John felt that he could breathe like this, locked into his embrace. So he didn’t let go, and neither did the man, and John began rutting against him and suckling eagerly on the tongue, and every moan into John’s mouth was like a breath of air in his lungs, keeping him from drowning.  
  
The sunlight above them disappeared beneath a shimmer of water and billowing fabric, and as they sank farther into the depths, their pace grew more urgent. John felt close to coming, just a few more strokes would send him over, and a pleading noise escaped his throat, and suddenly the weight of the man abandoned him, as did the image, only to be replaced by the emptiness behind his eyelids.  
  
He whined in frustration. He'd woken himself up, the noise he'd made having come from outside of the dream rather than within it. And his hand was already wrapped around his leaking erection, having been stroking himself while he slept, and he was halfway to coming anyway, and so he chased the fantasy for a moment, fully intending to finish what his mind had started.

Then he caught up to reality. His eyes snapped open and he sat up, wrenching his hand out of his underwear. And sure enough, Sherlock was still there. Watching over him, keeping to his promise.  
  
_That_ had been awkward.

Thank God the man couldn’t tell _who_ he’d been dreaming of, at least. This place was seriously messing with his head. And Sherlock didn’t say a word, only quickly averting his eyes when John came to his senses. But John was extremely embarrassed at himself, and he avoided Sherlock completely for the next several hours, unable to meet the man's eye. Despite this, his sadly denied penis stood unhelpfully alert and hopeful ever since.  
  
Presently, Sherlock still hasn’t gone to sleep. He claims he doesn’t need to yet. John is concerned about him, but leaves it alone; conversation is still a little awkward right now. They’ve gathered some beanbag chairs and shoved them together in a pile, and now they’re laying head-to-foot beside each other, listless and nauseous with thirst and hunger. John is still halfway tenting his boxers, adding to his overall discomfort.

There’s a long-suffering sigh from near his feet. “Oh for goodness sake, John. Go take care of it. It must be hurting by now.”  
  
John coughs, crossing his legs delicately. “I’m fine.”  
  
Sherlock sits up, pointedly avoiding John’s lower half. “You’re not fine, you’ve been like that for hours. It’s—” He flurries a wrist. “Unhealthy. Just… Go deal with it. Before it falls off.”  
  
A giggle ripples through John before he can stop himself. “Well I appreciate the concern, thanks. But really, don’t worry about it. I’m not… doing that. Not while someone’s watching.” He winces. _Oh, you rotten hypocrite._ “Like you said, there’s probably cameras all over this place. And I’m already drying up like a prune. Can’t afford to lose the moisture.”  
  
Sherlock shrugs and lays back down. “Your choice. Just don’t point it at me.”  
  
“Glad you don’t seem to be having the same issues,” John carefully treads, hoping to maybe bait him into the subject. Although he probably could have worded that better; it sounded suspiciously leading, even to himself. But he finds he can’t help his curiosity. And Sherlock still isn’t aware that he'd been watched (and secretly masturbated to) yesterday.

John wonders if that had been the only time, or simply the only time John had noticed him do it? He’ll probably never know. And disappointingly, Sherlock doesn’t take the bait.  
  
Later, the Fox is returning from relieving himself in _The Human Room—_ John’s new internal label for their makeshift communal toilet area. He sits by John’s feet, worrying at his fingernails. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say he looked anxious. Finally, Sherlock looks at him, affecting a casual air. “John,” he starts, as if about to ask something innocuous, but then his mouth flaps as if he isn't sure how to continue.  
  
John cocks an eyebrow at him, not that Sherlock can see it under his mask, and waits patiently for the words to come out.  
  
His face lifts. “I don’t think you should seek my assistance. Outside. Don’t waste your time on it.”  
  
John's other eyebrow joins in at this. “Why not?”  
  
He waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Because it won’t do any good. I’ll just think you’re mad and turn you away. So there’s no point. Focus your efforts elsewhere.”

John thinks this is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. Anyway, Sherlock appears to be neglecting one very important fact. “Well, sorry, but I can’t promise that. I wouldn’t remember agreeing to it even if I did.”  
  
Sherlock frowns. “Maybe not, but on a subconscious level the suggestion might affect your decision to do so.”  
  
“Why, though?” John props himself up on his elbows. “Why don’t you want us to meet out there?”  
  
There’s a pause. “Nevermind. Forget it,” he mutters, and lies back down before John has a chance to respond. Confused, John replays the conversation in his head.

 _What was all that?_  
  
He’s wrong, John is sure. Sherlock will take the case. The coincidence of another person blacking out like he does? He won’t be able to resist it. And then, maybe, they can finally start getting ahead of the game.

 

* * *

 

  
  
Much later, John’s unflagging penis has relaxed only from a lack of available resources. It would be funny, if it wasn’t such a life-threatening predicament; it’s difficult to maintain an erection when you’re on the brink of dying of thirst.  
  
“Sherlock… Maybe, the doors again?” John rasps through cracked lips. By now, both of them are suffering severe dehydration. His heartbeat flutters in his chest, and his mind has become foggy and slow. Even simple conversations have started leaving him confused, his brain occasionally dropping words and stringing the resultant nonsense together, making little sense of what he hears in the process.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t so much shake his head as move it slightly, just enough. “No point,” he mumbles. “They won’t let us expire. It’s a bluff. Just have to wait it out.” He rolls to the side on his beanbag chair and lifts his head, squinting at the clock. The minute hand crawls at a glacial pace towards the 72-hour mark of their stay.  
  
Everyone here is slowly dying.  
  
“Don’t think I can last much longer,” John proffers weakly. “Never thought I’d seriously consider drinking my own piss, but…”  
  
“We’ll be alright,” the Fox says, and John can’t tell which of them needs the reassurance more. “They wouldn’t do this if they thought we couldn’t survive it. Trust me.”  
  
And he does. Because nobody would put themselves through something like this willingly. Whatever doubts John had about Sherlock’s presence here, he’s buried them. Sherlock is a man who seems to base so much of his confidence and self-worth on his ability to know and see things ordinary people can’t, or won’t. And so being locked up here, with half a puzzle and a rising bodycount marking his failure to solve it must be a level of torment John can’t imagine.  
  
John decides his friend has earned the right to some honesty from him. “I planned to kill myself,” he says quietly, taking an unsteady breath. It feels shameful to admit it out loud. But it's also something of a relief; the secret has been a burden on his conscience ever since his motorway accident.  
  
It takes so long for Sherlock to respond that for a moment, John isn’t sure whether he heard it. “…I know. Why?”  
  
“I’m lost,” John shrugs. “Life went to shit when all this started happening to me. At first I thought I was losing my mind, you know… going psychotic, or something. Was afraid I’d… I dunno. I was afraid.” His dry eyes sting. “But now I’m convinced it’s some kind of terminal brain cancer. Heh. Daft, isn’t it?”  
  
“But it isn’t either of those things.”  
  
“I know. _I_ know that. _He_ doesn’t.”  
  
Dragging himself up, Sherlock crawls over to John and takes him by the shoulders, fixing him with an intense expression. John is too surprised by the move to shrug him off. Not that he wants to. “Listen to me, John. The mind is a powerful thing. You may not consciously remember this back home, but some part of you will: _Don’t do it.”_ Then he adds, almost as an afterthought and gripping him tighter, “And don’t seek me out. It's not a good idea. Understand?”  
  
No, he doesn’t understand. John isn’t sure he understands anything at this point. All he can do is chuckle at the absurdity of it. All of this. Of dying of thirst in a dressed-up ballroom in his undershirt and stained boxer shorts. Of blue-balling himself in front of a man he’d very nearly had a wet dream about, who he’d earlier masturbated to in secret. A man whose face he’s never truly glimpsed; only that mask, the stern and dignified Fox.

It’s like he slipped into an alternate dimension where nothing makes sense. Where he’s wanted both alive and dead. And the one person who might be able to save his life doesn’t want him to even ask for it.  
  
Nothing makes sense to him anymore.  
  
The clock chimes. It’s been three long days. The doors buzz, and swing wide with a metal groan.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s daytime. It’s raining.  
  
John is vaguely aware of these things. He knows it's daytime because the light filtering through his eyelids right now is _much_ too bright. And it's raining, because the muffled pattering of it sweeping against glass and brick outside stabs at him like a visceral, liquid pain in his head.  
  
_Why is there rain?… (Why wouldn’t there be?)_  
  
His mouth is bone dry. His tongue tastes awful. His gums are sore, teeth coated in a layer of plaque. His body is cold. His arm is asleep. That last one must be due to how he’s lying; he shifts it from its pinned position under him. The gradual return of sensation in the nerves makes it progressively tingle, then ache, then hurt. But then it begins to feel better. That’s one problem solved.  
  
It smells different here, too. _(Different to what?)_ Smells he can identify: Cigarettes. Lemon air-freshener. Booze.  
  
Eyelids like sandpaper draw open slowly. It takes him eons to focus his sight. It takes even longer for his mind to process the input. The room is familiar, but this isn’t his flat. He’s lying down on… Where is he? Oh, that's right, his makeshift bed on the sofa; Harry’s living room. His sheet and pillow are crumpled on the floor beside him. There’s the coffee table. Some magazines and a newspaper lay open and abandoned on it. An empty, tea-stained cup mocks his desperate thirst. As does an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.  
  
Lifting his eyes further, he spots the clock on the wall above the TV. Both hands point to 11. Friday? Saturday? He has no idea. He’s vaguely aware that he must have blacked out again, but for how long, he couldn’t guess. Except that he feels extremely ill— almost like he’s dying, so it must have been far longer than usual this time.  
  
“Harry?” he wheezes, but it’s a gust of air without any real strength backing it.  
  
It requires all of his energy to flop off the edge of the sofa and then sit up on his knees, joints creaking. He looks around, but the house looks and sounds empty. Only the rain beating down outside provides any evidence at all that the world isn’t frozen in time.  
  
Sickly and trembling, John crawls inexorably towards the kitchen, driven by his overpowering need to drink. As he reaches the doorway, he spots her there, slumped over at the kitchen table. She’s clutching a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey. The rest of the table is littered with bottles, and evidence of another is smashed apart on the floor, pieces scattered outward in a starburst around where it must have fallen. There’s an ashtray overflowing with spent fag-ends near her elbow, her hair is matted over her face, and she’s snoring lightly.  
  
“Harry.” A stronger effort this time, backed by a swell of anguish at the state of her. To see her passed out like that, probably blind drunk, makes his stomach knot in shame and disappointment.  
  
_Oh, Harry… Did I do that to you?_  
  
She murmurs and opens an eye. “Mmh… Jh… John?” She’s bounding out of her chair and throwing her arms around him quicker than John can process. “Oh my god, _John!”_ She hugs him, squeezing him tight as if he might float out of the window like a balloon and fly away from her.  
  
“Drink… water. Please,” is all he can manage. She pulls back, her eyes brimming with tears.  
  
“Oh John, where the fuck have you been?! I was so fucking worried about you!”  
  
Harry’s intoxication can be directly measured by how narrow her vocabulary shrinks around the word ‘fuck’. John closes his eyes and slumps tiredly against the door frame; he hasn’t the energy to chide her as he normally would. Right now, he’s just thankful to see the liquid pouring out of the tap at the sink.  
  
_Dear God, yes. Hurry up. Bring it here._  
  
She returns with a large glass tumbler, helping to hold it between his lips. After the first tentative sip to wet his dry mouth, he gulps the rest greedily, stopping only to cough and splutter when some of it passes down the wrong pipe in his haste.  
  
“Oh careful, love,” She soothes, flipped like a switch into a state of tender concern. Her eyes roam over his face with undisguised distress; he must look absolutely wretched. The glass quickly emptied, she sets it aside and wipes his chin on her sleeve. “You look so bloody awful, John. What happened? Should I… call an ambulance, or something?”  
  
He shakes his head emphatically. “No, please. Just… give me a minute. Could do with… another.” He gestures with a trembling hand, and she fills the glass again for him. He downs this one just as quickly — too quickly, as it turns out. He regrets it almost immediately when his stomach violently clenches. He doubles over, vomiting the liquid back out onto the tile floor; it’s as clear coming out of him as it was going in.

 _Stupid._ Coughing and grimacing, he sits back up. "Ugh, sorry. Should’ve known better."  
  
Thank God Harry has a strong stomach. Especially after having polished off what looks to be an unhealthy portion of her drinks cabinet. Though, he supposes she must witness this sort of thing pretty often, given her frequent pub-crawls. No doubt she’s held her fair share of hair back while a friend leans over the toilet bowl bringing up their expensive cocktails. Nevertheless, he’s thankful for her fortitude now, as she wipes him down with a tea-towel and is soon dragging him to his feet.  
  
“Come on, you. You need to get back to bed,” she says in his ear. Her breath is thick with whiskey, and the smell of it almost roils his stomach again. His feet stumble as she guides him back into the living room. He holds onto her as he lowers himself onto the sofa, but Harry catches his right arm before it slips away. “What’s this?” she asks, peering closely at it.  
  
He looks up and sees it: a black mark on his skin. It takes him a few seconds to realise what it is. Dirt? No, looks more like… ink. When he squints, he can read ‘#23’ in thick digits. He’s apparently acquired a tattoo.  
  
“When’d you get this?” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “Thought you hated tattoos.”  
  
“I… I don’t remember.”  
  
He stares at his wrist for a long while. He doesn’t understand, but looking at this gives him an odd feeling of dread. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something like this before, but something tells him it’s bad, that it means… _something._ Not Good. He doesn’t know. Maybe he read about it once, or saw it in a crime show?

Harry brings over a fresh drink of water and sits it on the coffee table, before perching on the edge of the sofa next to him. “John, I…” she begins hesitantly. But then seems unable to continue the thought.

His stomach churns threateningly until he’s forced to lie back down. He’s too weak to talk right now. Jumbled thoughts trip over each other in his head. A long while later, in between bouts of fitful sleep, only one idea remains standing, unshakable as a monolith.  
  
_Sherlock Holmes. He’ll help me. He'll know what's going on._

 

* * *

 

  
  
Harry hadn’t been lying about how worried she was during John’s three day disappearance: she’d even called in a Missing Persons report for him. Two constables visit later that day to confirm John’s reappearance, unhelpfully suggesting that he should visit a doctor about his ‘condition’. His temper didn’t quite flare as he politely explains to them that he _is_ in fact scheduled for tests, and after an hour of questioning and taking an official statement that basically amounted to _“I have no idea what happened”,_ they finally leave the two of them in peace.  
  
“Do you really have an appointment?” Harry asks afterwards, and John has to admit that he still hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet. He’s been a bit busy vanishing off the face of the earth every five bloody minutes, you see.

He’d rather not go at all, honestly. But the court order can’t be ignored, unless he wants to end up with a criminal record. Something nefarious is going on, he’s sure of it now. Someone has _tattooed_ him— and he knows he’d never go and do something like that to himself, even if he’d been asleep at the time. If his mind was simply acting out subconscious desires, he’s pretty sure he would have woken up in the Bahamas by now.  
  
And while he’d prefer to make the arrangements himself (not at all as an excuse to delay the inevitable), Harry promptly takes charge of the task, booking him a 9:00AM appointment for next Monday, with John insisting that it be anywhere other than at his old practice. He couldn’t bear to face the awkwardness of going back there as a patient in front of his old co-workers.  
  
Harry takes a few days off work to fuss over John during his recovery. She watches over him like a hawk.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he keeps assuring her, but it’s a promise they both know he can’t keep. It’s the depressing reality that he could disappear from under her nose again at any time without warning; the ever-present threat of it looms over them like a black storm, waiting to strike again.  
  
“Harry… If someday I don’t come back…” he begins one evening, but she quickly shuts him down.  
  
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear that, John. It’s not going to happen.”  
  
But he isn’t so sure. If the next one lasts any longer, he probably won’t survive it.  
  
After that first desperate drink when the survival instinct had overpowered his reason, John is mindful to avoid Hyponatremia again by carefully moderating his re-hydration. He drinks small, but regular amounts throughout each day, and eats carefully chosen foods to resupply on vitamins and electrolytes. Being a trained medical professional certainly has its advantages in this situation, knowing how to treat one’s own illnesses without having to suffer the attentions of some dispassionate stranger poking and prodding at you. Well, most of the time that’s true.

Unfortunately, there are _some_ things he can’t self-diagnose.  
  
When the day of his appointment finally rolls around, John is feeling well enough to leave the house. Harry drives him the five miles to a small clinic in the neighbouring town.  
  
“Thanks for all this,” he tells her on the way. “If you hadn’t been there… I wouldn’t have lasted this long.”  
  
He truly means it. Because despite their rocky history, his sister has really pulled through for him in a big way. It shocked him, in fact. She’s been a rock, taking care of everything for him. Perhaps she's done a lot more maturing over the past several years than he'd imagined. He doesn’t think anymore about what would have happened if she’d turned down his offer of lunch, or hadn’t come to pick him up at the site of his car accident. He’s just thankful that she did. Her love for him, despite their frequent arguments, despite all the bad blood between them, was evident in how zealously she’d been taking care of him this past week, and by how sick with worry she’d been while he was gone.  
  
They still have a lot to catch up on. John thinks about this as he gazes out of his window at the passing scenery. They’ve missed so much of each other’s adult lives, and for what? For the sake of pride, and fear, and bruised egos? It’s so petty. And it’s fair to say that all of the shit he’s been going through lately has put things into a better perspective for him now. Perhaps, if he survives this, they could really turn a corner, be something like family again. After all— they're all the family they've got left.  
  
They arrive at the practice, and Harry sits in the waiting room while John goes into the small numbered office to see the doctor. Ten minutes later, he leaves with a slip of paper to give to the nurse, who draws three vials of his blood, and a prescription for sleeping pills which he hands over to the pharmacy. While waiting for the pills, he tells Harry about the appointment the doctor made for him at St Bart’s hospital for the scans. They’re backed up, but he’s been put ahead of the queue as an urgent case.

Even still, it will be another three weeks before they can fit him in. Not bad for the NHS, he concedes. But that’s not soon enough for his liking— he just wants to get this over with.  
  
“Either way it goes, it’ll be good to get some answers,” Harry says, sounding a lot more hopeful than John feels. Before last week, he would have agreed with that. But now it all just feels like a waste of time.  
  
_I’m not sleepwalking. I don’t have a tumour. I’m not going mad. Somebody is doing this to me, and there’s only one man who can figure out who, and why— It’s about time I sent him an email._

 

* * *

 

  
  
After a morning of fruitless online job-hunting, John navigates to ‘The Science of Deduction’ website and copies the email address he finds there. Then, having composed what he hopes sounds like an interesting enough case to catch the notoriously fickle detective’s attention, he fires it off and waits nervously for a reply. The response comes in the form of a text message on his phone, and much sooner than he’d expected— a mere six minutes later.  
  
_If convenient, meet at 221B Baker Street, 3pm today. -SH_  
  
He glances at the clock. 2:17PM. _That git._ It isn’t convenient, not at such short notice. But he isn’t going to risk his only chance at this, so he responds in the affirmative. Harry is out shopping today, so he’ll have to get a cab; he’ll make it on time, but only if he leaves now. He grabs a notepad and pen and leaves a note for her on the coffee table before he leaves.  
  
The taxi drops him off on Baker Street a few minutes before 3:00PM, outside a quaint little sandwich bar called Speedy’s. He’s peckish when he arrives, so he pops inside to buy himself a bacon and egg bap. Surprisingly good. He’s a little envious the man lives next to a place like this; he wouldn’t mind the convenience of it himself. John hurriedly finishes it off, his stomach sated, before heading outside to ring the bell of the flat next door.  
  
When the door opens, John straightens reflexively; there to greet him, in his impeccably tailored jacket, smart black trousers and a deep purple shirt (one button open at the neck) stands the tall, dark-haired Consulting Detective himself, Sherlock Holmes. He smiles cordially, and John is immediately taken by the sharp almond eyes as they fix on him with a keen glimmer of interest.  
  
_Not bad. The pictures in the paper don’t do him justice._  
  
Intending to make a good first impression, John beams at him, extending a hand. “John. John Watson. Um, I’m here about the…?”  
  
The detective tilts his head. “Not bad, are they.” _What, your eyes?_ John almost says, but that can’t be right. Can it? Not unless the man can read minds. “The food, I mean. Next door. I see you’ve already tried them.” He gestures towards the sandwich shop, and there’s a puzzled look as if he’s not quite sure what else John must have been thinking about.  
  
“Oh!” John laughs, finally catching on and feeling his cheeks flush. “Yeah, not bad at all. How did you know…?”

“Obvious,” he says, and rubs a finger against the corner of his mouth. It takes John a second to realise he’s indicating a smudge of ketchup dried on his own face.

 _So much for good first impressions,_ John thinks to himself, as he pulls a tissue out to hurriedly wipe it off. He didn’t think he’d be quite this nervous. He’s making a right tit of himself so far. But he supposes the man must be used to people gushing over him by now; he is a minor celebrity.  
  
Sherlock waits patiently to shake his hand, before stepping aside. “Come in.”


	11. Chapter 11

The detective has already turned on his heels and is trotting up the staircase to the first floor.  
  
_Right. Straight to business then, I suppose._  
  
John shuts the front door and hangs his coat on the nearby hook, taking a moment to appreciate the lithe creature ascending the stairs with an enviable grace. John enters the living room of 221B, which he would politely describe as… very well _lived-in_ _._  
  
The room is cluttered with a kind of organised chaos. There are stacks of books, folders and papers all over. Boxes of documents, photographs and letters are scattered about, shoved into corners and occupying every table. There’s also boxes of knick-knacks, assorted metal tools _(Dentistry? Forensics?)_ , evidence sample bags _(Can't see the contents),_ tea of various origins and flavours, tobacco of various origins and flavours, wigs _(That hair looks real),_ clothing, a collection of bones propped and stacked _(Human... and in alphabetical order),_ electronic equipment _(Headphones, a cassette recorder, some big boxy objects and lots_ _of tangled wires),_ pill boxes and medical packets of various shapes, sizes, and colours _(He can’t possibly be on all of those),_ and even a few cans of paint.  
  
There’s also an overflowing laundry basket by the door, an abandoned plate of food (untouched) and three different laptops (one open, switched on) on the coffee table by the sofa, and several empty, discarded plastic water bottles littering the floor around it.  
  
“Nice place,” he fibs, eyeing the mess dubiously. “Just moved in, or…?”  
  
Sherlock offers a seat in front of the fireplace, indicating towards a fresh cup of tea waiting for him on the nearby table. John gratefully takes it as he sits down on the slightly uncomfortable wooden chair _(he must reserve this thing especially for clients),_ and Sherlock settles himself gracefully opposite him in a much cosier-looking black leather armchair.

“Fired the cleaner,” he explains. “She had sticky fingers. Things went missing.”  
  
_From this disaster zone? How can you even tell?_  
  
“Still, it’s… nice.” John shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot for his bum on the stiff cushion. “Can’t be cheap in this part of London. You own it?”  
  
“Inherited.”  
  
“Ah. Right, so…” John twiddles his thumbs. _Better get straight to it, before he loses interest._ “Well first off, thanks for taking a look at my case. You’ve read the email?”  
  
The detective nods, his expression turning serious, businesslike as he steeples his fingers under his chin. “You’re experiencing blackouts. No medical or family history of epilepsy. No pre-frontal lobe or hippocampus abnormalities, diseases, or damage. No alcohol or drug issues— at least, none that you admit to…” The detective’s eyes narrow, scanning over him. “…Which is true. Your latest episode lasted three nights whereupon you woke to find a number tattooed onto your wrist.” He leans forward with a hand outstretched. “May I see it?”  
  
The smooth fingertips and neatly trimmed nails give his hands a soft, feminine look, but otherwise the shape and size of them is decidedly masculine; John imagines they’re stronger than they look. He offers his wrist, which Sherlock takes and carefully twists to inspect the underside. His grip is firm and warm. He slips a small magnifying lens out of his breast pocket and holds it over John’s skin, peering closely at the mark.  
  
“Your sister was home when you awoke?” Sherlock asks, swiping a well-manicured finger over it. His breath tickles John’s arm, raising the hairs and sending a small shiver down his back.  
  
“Yeah, she was.”  
  
“And she didn’t hear or see anything?”  
  
“She was… asleep.” He doesn’t need to know the exact nature of her state that day—  
  
“Ah, I see. No wonder you avoid it.”  
  
“Avoid what?”  
  
He snaps the magnifier closed. “Alcohol. There’s already one drunkard in the family; you’re keen to avoid it becoming a pattern.”  
  
_Drunkard?_ Well okay, so she is. But accurate or not, she’s been good to him lately. The slight against her ruffles John’s feathers, even if he does technically have a point.

“Leave off. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”  
  
The detective straightens with a shrug. “I deal in facts and observations, Doctor Watson, nothing more. False pleasantries muddy the waters and obscure the truth. Any fact, _any_ piece of information may be crucial to uncovering what happened on the night you were taken. I can’t build a complete picture of the crime without seeing everything exactly as it was. So if your sister is a _drunkard,"_ he emphasises the word, "Then that may well be relevant to the investigation. Especially if her inebriation was exploited in some way to get at you.”

John might think he’s deliberately trying to provoke a reaction. But if he is, then the reason for it probably isn't a matter of hostility. He must be trying to figure out if John is going to be an awkward client, withholding vital information for the sake of protecting his own pride. John can see how that might be a common problem in his line of work.

The man lacks diplomacy, which isn’t that surprising to John. It’s still impressive just how much he can read into John’s behaviour without having to specifically ask. But motivations and human nature seem a little obscure to him. Sherlock strikes him as the sort of man who could take apart an alien device and put it back together again, in working order, and still end up having no idea what it should be used for. John has quite the opposite nature; he’s much more interested in the ‘why’ of things, rather than the ‘how’.

In truth, Harry’s drinking has never been a huge incentive for him to avoid alcohol. They’re different people, and John knows his own limits. He doesn’t mind having a drink every now and then; a glass of scotch helps settle his nerves on particularly stressful days. But the real reason for his current teetotalling is the promise he made to Ella, and John has always been a man of his word. Besides, if it eliminates a false lead in Sherlock’s investigation (and that of his medical tests) then all the better.

Well, John isn’t going to be uncooperative. He doesn’t have much of an ego to bruise. And seeking to prove his worth, John swallows his temper and commits fully to the man's line of questioning. “Right, sorry. Yes. She was passed out… drunk. But it was only because I’d been missing. She was worried about me. Doesn’t cope very well with this sort of thing, you know— emotional problems, family problems. She tends to fall apart and start blaming herself for it. Heh, come to think of it, we are quite a lot alike, Harry and me.”  
  
Sherlock studies him for a moment, before standing abruptly. “Come over here,” he says, striding into the kitchen. As John follows, his eyes are drawn down the length of Sherlock’s back and settle, inevitably, in the region of his arse, which he must admit is rather nice… for a bloke. He’s a little jealous of it. His eyes linger there longer than they have any right to.  
  
_Easy, tiger. It isn't polite to window-shop._

It’s a little unusual for him to check out other men. But Sherlock strikes him as quite… enticing, for some reason. He’s probably just feeling a little lonely. Which is understandable; it has been a while since he took anyone out on a date. Without a reason to go sit in the pub (and what with all the hell he’s been going through lately), he hasn’t exactly had a chance to meet anyone new. Hasn’t really wanted to, if he’s honest; the potential of dragging someone else into this mess is not a prospect he enjoys thinking about. That's already sadly happened with Harry. John almost wishes he’d never called her back after his accident.

But maybe he should start making an effort again. Hang out somewhere, buy a nice girl a drink or two, take her home for the night. A good shag would get the stress out of his system, at least for a little while. His appetite for such things seems to have returned a bit, and especially now that he has someone as smart as Sherlock Holmes working on the problem of his blackouts— the prospect of finally getting some answers is igniting a small hope in him that maybe, just maybe, his train-wreck of a life could yet be salvageable.

Hell, if he’s feeling brave, maybe he could ask Sherlock himself out for a drink. Why not, right?  
  
He almost laughs at himself. Where’s all this coming from? Okay, he has to admit the man _is_ attractive. And for John, that’s a rare opinion when it comes to men. But as a rule of thumb, he doesn’t swing that way. John doesn’t really consider himself bisexual; men, in general, just don’t do it for him. And even if he was, he’s sure someone with Sherlock’s fine grooming could do a lot better than him. Probably does. No doubt, the man can probably go on the hunt any time he likes, though he very much doubts he brings them back home to this mess.  
  
As for John, he’s not quite desperate enough to go chasing after blokes just yet. Still, maybe they could be friends. And maybe, if one thing led to another, as it had done with his commander in Afghanistan… Well, he wouldn’t complain.  
  
John forces his eyes back up, clearing his throat. “You said _taken_ _,”_ he comments, focusing his attention back to the matter at hand. “Is that what you think is happening, then?”  
  
Sherlock points to a chair. “Sit,” he instructs, opening a plastic case and removing a thin glass slide from within. John sits, and Sherlock moves around to his side of the table. He brandishes a scalpel. “Your wrist,” he prompts.  
  
“What…?” John eyes the blade dubiously, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.  
  
“I need a sample.”  
  
“Oh. Well, I suppose so…” John hesitantly unbuttons his cuff and rolls up the sleeve. Sherlock pushes a few beakers and a rack of test tubes out of the way, and holds John’s arm steady against the table.  
  
“Taken, yes. It’s obvious, isn’t it? You must have figured that much out by now. You're not an idiot.” He had figured that, of course. But having it confirmed is both a relief, and a worry that sinks like a stone in his gut.

And what did he say? _Not_ an idiot? For some reason, John had expected to hear the opposite.

“The how of it is another matter entirely. Losing entire days, presumably being awake, but unaware— a very interesting little puzzle indeed,” he continues, and with a careful flick of the blade he slices a thin layer of skin from an area of the black ink. “Memories can become locked in a variety of ways, but brain damage and traumatic experience are the most likely candidates.”  
  
John sucks air through his teeth. “I hope that’s sterile,” he mutters, watching a drip of blood slither its way down his wrist. “Brain damage, huh? Lovely… Could’ve done without knowing that, to be honest. So, has anyone else brought you a case like this? Blacking out randomly, or someone’s friend going missing on and off? 'Cause I don’t mind saying, but I’d find this all a lot less creepy if I knew I wasn’t the only one being messed with.”  
  
A box of tissues appears on the table. He takes a sheet and presses it firmly into the cut, unable to resist a mock glare at the detective. Sherlock's full attention is now on the sample currently sliding under his microscope. “You’re not going to tell me this is laced with sedatives or something, are you?”  
  
Apparently no; he’s not going to say anything at all. The detective is absorbed in his task, and John may as well have turned invisible. He sits in uncomfortable silence, watching Sherlock’s dexterous hands as they twist the dials of the apparatus.

He has to admit: Sherlock is quite strikingly handsome. But there’s something else about him that John can’t quite put his finger on. Something almost… familiar? Though he’s fairly confident they’ve never met before, he would remember, and Sherlock hasn’t given any indication that he recognises John, and so he figures it’s probably just from seeing him in the papers and the occasional clip on the news channel. Still, it’s an odd feeling; he can’t quite shake it.  
  
The silence is growing unbearable. “So… You live here alone, then?” he tries. Given the state of the place, he imagines that's a foregone conclusion. But he can’t resist probing a little; he wants to learn more about this peculiar, intelligent man. He seems alright, not exactly _friendly_ but not as rude as people say. He seems closed-off. John doubts he has many friends.

_Wonder if he’s as lonely as I am?_

His cheekbones are too high and his eyes are a mystery and he seems entirely too gangly to be as poised and comfortable in his body as he appears. And the more John looks at him, the more fascinated he becomes. The man’s reputation of being devastatingly clever, but lacking in social grace, has so far proven fairly accurate— if a little harsh, in John’s opinion. But why doesn’t anybody ever talk about how _gorgeous_ he is?  
  
“Alone, yes. Preferable. People are generally annoying.”  
  
“Oh? That’s too bad.” He hears his own words too late, inwardly kicking himself when Sherlock looks up, a quizzical look on his face.  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
_Crap. I set myself up for this._

“I just mean…” _What_ do _I mean? How do I say this without it sounding like a come-on?_ “I mean you’ve got a lot going for you, by the looks of things. Career on the rise, you’re intelligent, good looking—” He clears his throat, moving swiftly on. “All that’s missing is a nice girl on your arm, and I reckon you’ve got life all sorted. The rest of us should be so lucky.”  
  
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”  
  
“Not that I’d presume to know what you’re like to live with,” he’s quick to add. “Maybe you’d drive them round the bend, heh.” _Oh God, don’t insult him!_ “Not saying you would! I mean, probably not. You don’t seem bad at all. I’m sure you’d be lovely to live with. But you’re right, you’d have to get along well for that sort of thing.”  
  
He’s sweating. Sherlock’s focus on him is like the sun being angled through a magnifying glass. It threatens to burn a hole through him. The detective is undoubtedly analysing every syllable, every muscle in John’s face, and John just wants the floor to open up and swallow him to save him from his own ridiculous backpedaling. Finally John has to look anywhere else, electing to inspect a tiny scuff on his jeans until he feels the spotlight of Sherlock’s attention fall away from his heated face.  
  
“You have quite the imagination,” he hears, and there’s a hint of wry amusement in the tone. _Good. Good job, Watson. Very smooth._ “But thank you. For the compliment.”

Several awkwardly silent minutes pass before Sherlock glances up again with an unsure expression. “Have we… met, before today?”  
  
John’s eyes widen in surprise. _So, you feel it too, do you?_ “You know, I was just thinking the same thing. Have we?”  
  
He shakes his head thoughtfully. “No. I don’t think I would have deleted you.”  
  
'Deleted him'? John isn’t sure what that means. He’s about to ask when Sherlock takes the glass slide and retreats back into the living room. John steps out of the kitchen to find him putting on his heavy Belstaff coat and wrapping a dark blue scarf around his neck. He turns to address John with a curt, businesslike nod.  
  
“I need to run a few tests and make some additional enquiries. I’ll text you if I find anything. Keep me apprised of any new developments.”

_Oh. That's all, then?_

“Right, well… Thanks for your help, Mr Holmes. I mean it. I don’t know where else to turn if you can’t figure this out.”  
  
“Not to worry. My interest is piqued,” he says with a quick smile and a wink. _(A wink? Really? Maybe it’s not a girl he needs on his arm, after all…)_ They shake hands again, and the contact sends a small thrill of excitement racing up his arm. “And please, call me Sherlock.”  
  
They part ways in the street below, Sherlock hailing a taxi seemingly out of nowhere, disappearing within it.

John catches his own cab back to Harry’s place, turning the meeting over in his mind as London’s streets glide by through the window. It had been an… _interesting_ meeting, but all too brief. Was the sample really all Sherlock had called him over for? It almost feels like a wasted journey. Almost. John hadn’t provided any additional detail to what he’d written in his email, and the detective hadn’t asked him a lot of questions in the end, but maybe that’s just how he works.  
  
But John is still glad he came. Overall, Sherlock hadn’t been as cold and mechanical as people say he is. He actually seems quite charming, and it feels like they’d had an instant connection. But perhaps he was just making an effort to not scare off an interesting case? It was difficult to tell. Either way, he’d enjoyed it. This is the brightest he’s felt in quite a long time. Finally, progress is being made, and in a direction he finds a lot easier to take than the possibility that he was simply losing his mind.  
  
And weirdly, there had been a shared acknowledgement that both of them feel a strange familiarity, despite having never met before today. What was _that_ _?_ An odd coincidence? John can’t even hazard a guess. But that can’t be a bad thing, can it?  
  
He idly wonders at the cost of laser tattoo removal. As if finding a new job wasn’t already difficult enough, that's going to be a weird thing to try to explain to a potential employer.


	12. Chapter 12

The call comes several days after John’s meeting with Sherlock Holmes. In the interim before he is to be seen for his CT and MRI scans at the hospital, John’s doctor has arranged for him to participate in a sleep study. In essence, John will be spending a week at a private medical facility, wherein his nights will be closely monitored by both electronic and visual means.  
  
_This is a fantastic bit of luck,_ he thinks as he’s unpacking his suitcase in the climate-controlled room. There’ll be no way they could miss it if someone attempted to barge in past the security gates to kidnap him again. He’ll be hooked up to a heartrate monitor _and_ a brainwave scanner, and there’s cameras watching from two opposite corners of the room, plus one directly over the bed, that will capture absolutely everything that happens to him.  
  
It’s the first time he’s found himself actually _hoping_ for the event to occur.  
  
He’s free to come and go as he pleases during the day, but John spends most of his free time in the plain bedroom, job-hunting on his laptop at the desk in the corner, and occasionally checking his phone, eager for updates on his case (though so far Sherlock hasn’t contacted him at all). He leaves only to grab lunch at midday and have dinner with Harry later on, because he well knows the universal truth that any kind of healthcare facility has to have awful, tasteless food, and this one is no exception. It’s practically the law.  
  
On the first night of being monitored, John finds it difficult to fall asleep. He spends most of the night turning over and shifting beneath the crisp sheets, hyper-aware of the many eyes watching and recording him. It’s not easy, letting go in an unfamiliar environment and under such intense scrutiny. Nevertheless, exhaustion finally wins him over and he at least manages a couple of hours of REM sleep, but he feels shattered in the morning.  
  
They give him a pill to help him relax on the second night, and that combined with his leftover fatigue from the night before does the trick beautifully. John sleeps a full nine hours, waking much more refreshed in the morning. At noon, he heads out to a nearby park and sits on a bench near the lake, enjoying the relaxing view across the placid waters. The weather is turning much colder now; Autumn slipping away to hide in the lengthening shadows of Winter, leaving the grasses tinged with frost and his breath misting in the brisk air.  
  
He heads back to the facility, taking a moment to check his phone for the tenth time that day. Still no updates. He considers calling Sherlock to ask him about it directly, but doesn’t want to risk bothering the detective— he’s probably just busy, neck-deep in whatever he’s investigating. But John can’t help worry that perhaps he’s gotten bored of John’s case already and moved on without telling him.  
  
_If he doesn’t send an update by the time I’m out of here, I’ll have to call him._  
  
The rest of the week slips by uneventfully. John sleeps surprisingly well, having gotten a little more used to being watched and monitored. It’s going well, the staff inform him, though they aren’t obliged to tell him about anything they’ve found until the end of the survey. His knowing about it might alter the results, he supposes. John’s phone only buzzes once; it’s Harry, asking him what she should pick them up for dinner tomorrow night when he comes home.

 

* * *

  
  
On the sixth and final night, John goes to sleep in his firm medical bed and wakes up some unknown amount of time later on a soft, red sofa.

Well, so much for safety under scrutiny; he’d begun to hope this was impossible, but here he is again. The same richly decorated ballroom he’s grown so hatefully familiar with.

Its population is visibly diminished, and Sherlock is nowhere to be found again. Like all their previous visits so far, John finds the fresh corpse of a man in the dark room. His tattoo is the number 11. Another prime number.

_Primes,_ John recalls. _So the next ones to die will be #13, #17, #19, and then… me._

While waiting for the doors to open, John wonders why Sherlock hadn’t mentioned his own blackouts at all during their meeting. In fact, he’d deftly avoided answering at all when John had asked about other cases similar to his own. Why hadn’t he said something? Surely it would be relevant to the case? It’s possible that he simply didn’t see any point in sharing the information; John wasn’t the one expected to investigate this, so why waste time telling him things he didn’t need to know? But it still bothers him. He gets the distinct feeling the man knows more about all this than he’s letting on.

And really, what should John have expected? The man he knew from the ballroom was closed-off, standoffish, even rude. And while ‘outside’ Sherlock had seemed a little friendlier overall, he was still the same bloke underneath.

John wonders which side of the detective’s personality is the more honest display. Does the stress of captivity shorten his temper? Does a new client with a promising case put him on his best behaviour? Hell, maybe both of these things are true. In their meeting he’d actually told John _“You’re not an idiot,”_ which despite himself John can’t help but find sardonically amusing.

Maybe _Ballroom Sherlock_ is an evil twin of the real man? If so, the only thing missing is the goatee.

Sherlock’s reticence wasn’t unexpected, but John hadn’t had any reason to find it suspicious at the time. Outside, he still had no idea Sherlock was involved in any of this. But right now it stuck out to him like a red flag, and John couldn’t put it out of his mind. It was infuriating that Sherlock wasn’t here for him to ask about it.

This visit was another long one, but thankfully not as long as the previous; the metal doors buzz and open wide after just over a day.

 

* * *

 

 

John wakes at the inpatient facility.

At first, nothing seems wrong, although he feels exhausted this morning. But when a young woman in a neat white coat and carrying a clipboard enters the room, she jumps in surprise at seeing him there.

“Oh! …Doctor Watson??”

He shuffles himself up the bed to sit upright, greeting her with a tired smile. “Hello. All done then, are we? This was the last day, wasn’t it?”

She gapes at him for a moment, glancing between him and her clipboard. “Sir… Yesterday was the last day. We thought you’d left early without telling anyone.”

His face sags, eyes widening in disbelief. “I… left? You mean it actually happened again?” She looks confused. John throws off his blanket, paying no mind to his state of undress in his hurry to climb off the bed. “The cameras. The monitors, did you check them? What did you see? What happened to me?!”

Seeing his agitation, the nurse calls over her shoulder to summon someone. A man in a white coat appears. When he sees John, he visibly balks. “Oh! I’m sorry Doctor Watson, but we’d assumed—”

“Yes, I’m getting that loud and clear,” John says, his patience fraying. “What did the cameras see?”

The doctor and nurse exchange a look. The nurse shrugs. The doctor turns back to John. “You… left. You simply removed your electrodes, got dressed, and presumably went home.”

“I didn’t _go home!”_ John snaps. “And there’s no way I just… got up and left! No. I want to see the cameras. Show me the footage!”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but we can’t simply—”

_“Show me_ the damn footage!” he yells, taking a deliberate step forward. It has the desired effect; fear flashes across their faces, the doctor showing his hands plaintively.

“Sir, I think you had better leave now.”

John scoffs at him, but when he threatens to call security, John has no choice but to relent. They leave him alone after he promises to leave peacefully, and he begins gathering his laptop and phone charger with thinly restrained fury.

_What a monumental waste of time. These people were supposed to give me answers, damn it!_

He checks his phone, already expecting the lack of word from Sherlock about his case, so he isn’t surprised to find no new messages waiting for him. Impatience finally getting the better of him, he sends off a terse text.  
  
_Any news? -JW_  
  
He stares at the screen for five long, hopeful minutes, remembering how quickly the detective had responded to his initial email, but no reply comes.  
  
He sighs, agitated, and packs the rest of his things a little more forcefully than necessary. He starts getting dressed, and while picking his shirt off the metal hanger by the door something small and thin flutters to the floor by his feet. He stoops to retrieve it.  
  
It’s a piece of card; rectangular, like a business card of some sort. Cream-coloured and lightly textured, the front face is embossed with fancy letters in gold foil and there is a thin gold border around the edges. It reads simply, _‘Brother Grimm’_ in large, curvy type. He’s never seen it before. He turns it over to inspect the reverse, frowning as he reads what appears to be a poem or verse of some kind.  
  
_“Here and there trots Mr Fox,_  
_So clever, so cunning, so sly!_  
_The Cat must teach him to climb the trees_  
_Or else, will watch him die.”_  
  
“…The hell…?” he mutters. He flips it over again. There’s nothing else on the card; no address, no telephone number. He pockets it for now, zips up his suitcase, and heads out to the main reception area. At the front desk he stops and catches the secretary’s attention, showing her the card.  
  
“Excuse me? Do you know what this is?” he asks. “Some kind of ad for a local theatre troupe, or something? It was tucked into my clothes. Did one of the staff put it there?”  
  
She gives him a bemused look, assures him she has no idea what it is. She even has the gall to suggest he may have simply forgotten that he put it there himself. John ruefully laughs, and assures her he’s not _quite_ that old. Yet. She apologises and shrugs.

 

* * *

 

  
  
During dinner that evening, John shows the card to Harry. She’s equally perplexed. “Maybe you should show it to that detective?” she suggests, lifting another morsel of takeaway Chinese noodles to her mouth with a pair of plastic chopsticks.  
  
“Sure, if the git will ever get back to me,” he grumbles between mouthfuls. He still hasn’t heard anything back, and he’d sent another text over an hour ago. What the hell was the point in giving John his number if he never responded?  
  
“This was a fucking good suggestion, John,” she groans happily, tapping the chopsticks together. “I haven’t had Chinese in bloody ages. We should go eat in-house sometime if their takeaway is as good as this.”  
  
John hums in agreement. Red Lantern has always been his favourite for that very reason. The sweet smell from their cartons is heavenly, and they both eat until their stomachs are painfully full.  
  
That night, John slips into a dream.

He’s sitting in a dark, empty room. The shadows are so deep that he isn’t able to see the walls, and a single light shines down directly over him. The wooden chair under his naked body is hard, cold, and worn. His wrists are locked tightly onto the arm rests with metal bands, and his ankles are similarly strapped to the chair’s front legs.  
  
Someone approaches from behind and places something over his eyes; it latches shut painfully tight around his skull. There’s an inexplicable fear rising through him, like he already knows what comes next, like he’s been through this so many times before and he can’t bear to feel it again. He struggles at the restraints but there's no room, they're holding him too tight. Then something cold and flat presses to each side of his head, holding him in place by his temples, and suddenly his world burns white and his back arches to its limit and he’s fairly sure this is exactly what being electrocuted feels like.  
  
Random thoughts and memories and images burst and warp in his vision, while a white-hot pain shoots through his head like six-inch nails being hammered through his eyes, and there’s a deafening electronic noise screaming from inside his own brain and the pain— oh God, the pain! It just keeps ratcheting up, increasing in intensity in little jumps like a dial being turned. It hurts, oh fucking _Christ_ it hurts, and it’s getting hotter— _Stop!_ _Please, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS, STOP, PLEASE!!_  
  
John hurls himself out of bed in a blind panic, his own screams echoing in the darkened living room. He’s scrambling to his feet when the light flicks on and someone’s rushing down the stairs.  
  
“John? John!”  
  
_Who is it? Where am I?! Safe? No. Not safe! Flee, run! RUN!!_  
  
“S-stay away from me!” he cries, unable to recognise her face through the nightmare, that horrible shrieking and the restraints he can still feel around his wrists even as his nails claw at his skin, drawing blood, desperate to pry away their invisible presence.  
  
Before he knows it, John is pelting down the garden path away from the house, into the freezing night air, and there’s nothing else in his mind but the pain and the noise and a voice telling him to just keep running. And he does— he runs as fast as his legs will carry him, directionless, picking streets at random, houses and parked cars flying by and unfamiliar roundabouts and a park with rusty metal swings and an old brick bridge over a babbling stream and through overgrown alleys between the gardens of terraced streets.  
  
His bare and bloodied feet trip down a small set of concrete stairs, and he tumbles to the pavement, scraping to a halt at the bottom, his chest heaving and tears streaking his face. He lies there on the cold ground, grit clinging to his clammy skin, and for a long time he can’t stop sobbing. He has no idea why he needs to, but his body is aching and his mind is a blank canvas and he feels so, so afraid.  
  
Eventually he quietens, still blinking unbidden tears from his eyes, and for a moment wonders what he’s doing on the floor. He’s shivering in the cold. The fear is lifting, gradually replaced by a vague awareness of what just happened. He’d been running, fleeing from something, but… There was nothing. He’d had a nightmare. He’d woken Harry. He’d run from the house.  
  
_Just a nightmare… It was just a nightmare…_  
  
When his heart settles, John is able to pick himself up off the floor, brushing the dirt off his skin. His wrists are stained, and there’s dried blood under his fingernails. His left arm has a pretty nasty-looking scrape, but thankfully isn’t bleeding much. The soles of his feet are scuffed raw. They leave traces of red with each footstep as he gingerly starts heading back home.

 

* * *

 

  
  
By the time he gets back, the early morning sun is peeking over the roofs. Harry drags him inside the house the moment she sees him stumbling back up the garden path. He’s had enough time to decide he’d been a complete and utter tit, running like a terrified deer from an invisible predator, causing itself far more injury in the process than any outside threat. But the nightmare, it had seemed so… real.  
  
Harry’s patience with him had to be running paper thin by now. And though he apologises copiously for scaring her, he can see it in her eyes; it's wearing her down. She’s getting as tired of all this as he is. Still, she dutifully helps him clean his self-inflicted wounds using a years-old First Aid kit she dug out of the storage closet under the stairs. Thankfully, the gauze was sealed tight and still clean enough to use.  
  
He wasn’t able to get back to sleep that morning. That had been a pretty horrifying nightmare, even by his standards, and he wasn’t eager to potentially come face-to-face with it again anytime soon. He found it ridiculously ironic that this had to happen to him the very same night his sleep study had just concluded, _for fuck’s sake,_ like it had purposefully waited for the right opportunity to spring itself upon him.  
  
But it is what it is, he thinks, and at least it wasn’t another blackout.

He wishes he could've seen the footage from the sleep study. He doesn't believe for one moment that he simply got up and left. But why would they lie to him? Could they just be mistaken, somehow? What was that place, anyway— he didn't catch the name of it. He'll have to ask Harry later. She drove him there, she'll know.  
  
Some hours later, they're sitting together on the sofa as they watch the morning news. Harry is munching on a piece of toast, and John has forgotten all about the question he was going to ask her, having been too preoccupied with so many other worries. John’s phone suddenly vibrates on the coffee table. His stomach flutters when he sees why: finally, a text from Sherlock, but his excitement quickly dampens when he reads the message.  
  
_Baker st. -SH_  
  
“That lazy, self-important twat,” he growls, throwing his phone aside on the cushion next to him. Harry raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Bastard doesn’t say a word for over a week, ignores my texts, and then when he _can_ be bothered to communicate he can’t manage more than a two-word bloody summons. If he’s calling me over just to dump the case, then God help me Harry, I might actually clock him one.”  
  
“Clock him two for me if he does,” Harry nudges him. “So that’s it? No appointment time or date, just expects you to show up… whenever?”  
  
“Apparently so,” John mutters. “Might as well get it over with sooner than later, though. Think you could give me a lift sometime today? I know it's a pain, but…”  
  
“Sure, love. Let me go get washed up and we can leave whenever you like.”  
  
Harry disappears upstairs, and John takes a moment to sit back and pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. This is just his luck. His one hope of salvation is already so disinterested in what’s happening that he doesn’t even care about wasting John's time like this. And to think, he thought they’d had some kind of instant connection. He'd certainy _seemed_ interested enough. Now it just feels like a cruel joke at his expense. The media were right after all: Sherlock Holmes is a massive twat.  
  
_I can’t believe I pinned my hopes on this. What the fuck am I going to do?…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Brief mentions of torture during a nightmare.


	13. Chapter 13

They manage to find a parking space fairly close to Baker Street and head over there on foot, their progress made slow by John’s recent injuries. Fortunately, he was able to wrap his feet securely enough that the short journey doesn’t cause too much pain, but by the time they arrive at the door to 221B he’s eager to get inside and sit down for a few blessed minutes.  
  
When he approaches to ring the bell, however, he sees that the door isn’t latched shut. It swings open with little encouragement.  
  
“Mr Holmes?” he calls into the stuffy hall. There’s no reply. He steps inside fully, Harry close behind. “Sherlock? Are you home?”  
  
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out to look at the message.  
  
Upstairs. -SH  
  
That’s odd. He’s home then; he clearly heard John speak, but either can’t or doesn’t want to call down to him. John hopes, with a sudden icy tendril of fear, that it’s the latter.  
  
“Maybe you should stay down here for a sec,” he says over his shoulder. “Something’s not right about all this. If you hear anything bad, call the police, alright?”  
  
Harry nods, but there’s worry in her eyes. “Be careful, John.”  
  
John cautiously makes his way up the creaky stairs. He wishes he had his Sig with him, but he hasn't been able to look at it the same way since... Well. Since it started looking a little too friendly. He pushes the thought out of his mind; now isn't the time. Aware that he’s already given away his presence, he decides to pretend to be oblivious to any threat. If there’s an intruder in the flat, perhaps holding Sherlock hostage, then they’re going to be ready and waiting for him. What he hopes they won’t be expecting is that he’s equally prepared to be jumped; anyone who tries will quickly regret it.  
  
“You shouldn’t leave the front door open like that, mate,” he calls through the flat door. He takes a moment to steel himself, taking a steadying breath before turning the handle. “It isn’t safe to—”  
  
He steps inside, and for a moment his every sense is on hyper alert for danger. But where he’d expected to be attacked, nothing happens. Looking around the room, everything seems normal. A little messier, perhaps. But when he turns to the couch, suddenly it all becomes clear. He releases his breath in relief, unaware he had even been holding it.  
  
Sherlock lies there, phone in hand, huddled under a thick blanket. His eyes are puffy and tired-looking, and he looks even paler than he did the first time John met him. There’s some bottles of water on the coffee table in front of the sofa, as well as a bottle of pills, open, some of them scattered on the surface. He gives a weak smile at John.  
  
“Apologies if I don’t get up,” he says sleepily, his voice catching on sharp edges in his throat.  
  
“Bloody hell.” John moves to crouch by the side of him. It makes too much sense now why Sherlock hadn’t called. He feels a twist of guilt. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an arse; I thought you were just ignoring me. I had no idea you've been ill.”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head weakly. “Nevermind it. You said… you had something. Some new piece of evidence. Did you bring it with you?”  
  
“Now hang on," John protests, "This seems a bit more important than the case right now. You should’ve just told me you were sick. I wouldn’t have come over and disturbed you if you needed some more time.”  
  
“No. No time for that,” he says, wincing as he labours into a more upright position. He throws the blanket off, and John is relieved to see that he’s dressed in a shirt and trousers, at least. John’s arms move automatically to help him out of sympathy. “Show it to me.”  
  
“Okay.” John reaches into a pocket and hands over the card he’d discovered tucked into his clothing, but when Sherlock extends an arm to take the card, John notices some red marks peeking out from beneath the cuff. “What’s this?” he says, tugging the cuff back. Sherlock twists away in an effort to resist, but then seems to think better of it and allows John to roll up his shirt sleeve and expose his skin.  
  
Along the length of his pale limb are a series of numbers scratched haphazardly into his skin. 2, 3, 5 and 7 run along the top, above another row containing 0, 1, 3 and 0. There are more numbers further towards the crook of his elbow, but they appear to have been crossed through with more scratch marks; John can make out 13, 43, and 58. They’re lightly scabbed over, but still deeply red and looking quite sore. John can’t make heads or tails out of it. He examines the marks closely; they appear to be self-inflicted.  
  
He lifts his eyes with a silent entreaty _("What the hell is all this?")_ but the man simply shrugs in return _("I don’t know")_.  
  
John excuses himself for a moment and heads back downstairs to inform Harry that everything’s fine. He suggests that he might be a while; she should probably wait for him at the sandwich place next door. After she leaves, he returns to the living room and takes a seat nearby, watching the detective ruminate over the Grimm card, the pallor of his face further emphasised now by the grave expression darkening his eyes.  
  
“Any ideas, then?” he prompts, and Sherlock appears to suddenly remember he isn’t alone. A carefully neutral countenance slips back into place like a mask, but it seems so blatant that John genuinely isn’t sure whether he was meant to notice it. Given how sluggish and sickly Sherlock is looking, though, perhaps not.  
  
There’s something else that doesn’t feel right about this, either; his weakened condition, the bottles of water… This is just how John himself had appeared after his three day disappearance, he’s almost certain of it. But that would mean…  
  
“What did you say you’ve come down with?” he asks, affecting a casual tone.  
  
“I didn’t,” Sherlock responds matter-of-factly, dropping the card on the table and laying back. He squints at the ceiling, as if trying to prise secrets from the cracks in the plaster. “Just got a little too dehydrated, that’s all.” John’s suspicions, as well as his hackles, are only raised.  
  
_He knows I’m a doctor. Is he seriously trying to fool me?_  
  
“How’d that happen, then?”  
  
“Clearly, I don’t drink often enough.”  
  
John’s brows drop together in annoyance. He isn’t going to give in that easily. “It’s not the first time this has happened, though. Is it? Our first meeting, I saw a whole bunch of empty water bottles on the floor. You seemed fine then, but I reckon you’d had a little time to recover. Am I right? I know the signs, Sherlock. You weren’t just a little dehydrated; you’d been denied a drink for _days._ Just the same as I had.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flick down to him, fixing him with a cool stare, and John returns it with battle-hardened aplomb. For a moment they seem to be locked in a stalemate, but finally Sherlock closes his eyes with a defeated sigh.  
  
“I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I have a rather… colourful history of substance abuse. I’m no stranger to blackouts. It didn’t seem relevant.”  
  
“Not relevant?” John huffs incredulously. He decides to put aside for now the surprising revelation of the detective's narcotic past. “You can’t be serious? This is more than just a coincidence. You’re even covered in marks that you apparently don’t remember making. How that can possibly not—”  
  
“Let me rephrase then,” he interrupts. “I didn’t _want_ there to be a connection.”  
  
“Why not?” John presses, his patience threadbare at this point. “What aren’t you telling me? More to the point, _why_ aren’t you?”  
  
The detective sits up again, scrubbing his fingers through his curly hair. He stares at the card on the table, and John’s hand tremor is tapping a discordant beat against the armrest, and he’s about to get up and start yelling at the man to _say something_ when he speaks again, his voice infinitely more level than John feels.  
  
“Get me my coat, would you?”  
  
“Why? So you can run away and keep avoiding me?” John snaps, but is already up out of his chair and grabbing the thick Belstaff off its hook. He throws it rather carelessly over to the sofa and watches as Sherlock slips wearily into it.  
  
“No, John,” he says, standing and pocketing his phone and the Grimm card. “You and I are going to meet with someone. And after we’re done there, I promise to answer anything you wish to know. But right now, I can’t risk theorising before I have more relevant data.” He glances at John, and a flicker of an apology appears in his eyes. “I know this is frustrating. But you’ll just have to trust me for now.”  
  
John narrows his eyes at him in a mixture of suspicion and concern. Despite his anger at the situation, he can’t help his caring nature. Swaying a little on his feet, Sherlock looks in no fit state to be going out into the cold Autumnal air. “You sure it’s alright? You may need a few more days.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he says tightly. “Already wasted too much time as it is.” He crouches then to dig into one of the boxes occupying the untidy room, pulling out something small and square, and pockets this too. Then he's pulling on a pair of gloves and heading for the door, and John has no choice but to follow.  


 

* * *

  
  
True to his annoyingly reticent nature, Sherlock won’t tell him where they’re going. Figuring this is all taking much longer than expected, John apologises to Harry and tells her she may as well go home; he’ll get a taxi back when they’re done visiting… whoever the heck it is. She pecks him on the cheek as she leaves, and he’s relieved that her breath doesn’t smell of whiskey yet today. If it did, there’s no way he’d let her drive home.  
  
Their current taxi takes them to Westminster, a sector of London John has rarely had the opportunity or reason to visit. It drops them off in the St James district, and Sherlock guides him (thankfully rather slowly, given his current state) towards a rather large and stately corner building. As they climb the steps to the entrance, John spots a gold plaque mounted on the wall beside the sturdy front door.  
  
“Diogenes,” he reads. “Wasn’t that a Greek God of some kind?”  
  
“A hero,” Sherlock corrects. “Or so I’m told. I have no interest in fiction; myths are trite and boring.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“There’s a rule here,” he says, turning to John. “A stupid rule, but nevertheless. There is no talking outside of the Stranger’s Room. We don’t want to get kicked out, so if you have anything to say or ask before our meeting, now is the time.”  
  
“Alright,” John raises his chin. “ _Who_ exactly are we meeting?”  
  
Sherlock scowls at the door. “A pretentious _arsehole_ and a very powerful man. He has an undeservedly high opinion of himself, so he's unlikely to give you the time of day. I’ll do the talking, if you don’t mind.” He takes a moment to steady himself, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, and with that he opens the door and steps inside.  
  
“Be my guest,” John mutters, following in tow.  
  
His poise transformed into a picture of confidence, Sherlock stalks quickly through the building, pointedly ignoring the men in expensive suits who sit in silence on their chairs, reading newspapers and sipping tea. John glances aside at them but carefully avoids eye-contact, thinking it best not to catch any undue attention.  
  
_Is this a private club? Am I even meant to be in here?…_  
  
They approach an imposing panelled door; the plaque on the wall indicates this is The Stranger’s Room. The door handle is hung with a Do Not Disturb sign, which proves itself a useless deterrent to the detective as he barges in without a moment’s hesitation. John slips in behind him much more cautiously.  
  
“Mycroft. Brother _dear_ ,” Sherlock drawls in a sickly sweet, but painfully false tone. He’s puffed himself up and is all bravado, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, perhaps in an attempt to hide his sickly condition. “Or should I start calling you ‘Brother Grimm’?” He flicks the card John gave him onto the beautifully dark, carved-wood desk in the centre of the room, at which a smartly-dressed man sits watching them calmly, apparently unsurprised by Sherlock’s sudden intrusion.  
  
_This is… Sherlock’s brother? ‘Mycroft’? Weird name._  
  
Mycroft Holmes appears to be the older sibling of the two. Far more traditional and upmarket in his appearance and dress, though his younger brother is obviously no less well-bred. He looks none too pleased to see Sherlock, and John gets the instant impression that the two see rather _less_ than eye-to-eye. He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, and after a moment he reaches over to pick up the card and look it over, flipping it once to read the text. “Taken a sudden interest in poetry, have we?” he remarks coolly.  
  
“Is this what I think it is?” Sherlock snaps, and John glances at him questioningly.  
  
The older man leans back in his leather chair, twirling the card between his fingers. “I’m clever, Sherlock, but I’ve yet to master the art of _telepathy._ What do you think it is?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes turn cold and dagger-like. “Stop being obtuse, it’s a simple enough question. Did you send it?”  
  
Mycroft’s stony eyes flick briefly to John, appraising him in a nano-second, before returning their steely gaze to the detective who stands poised and rigid before the elegant desk. John thinks Sherlock looks about ready to leap over the top of it and attack the man. Mycroft studies his brother thoughtfully for a moment. “This was sent to your client, was it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Not yourself?”  
  
“ _No,_ ” he says at length, as if speaking to a child.  
  
“Then,” Mycroft responds, a false smile spreading broadly across his face, and he brings his elbows onto the table, knitting his fingers together under his chin. “I fail to follow this flawed leap of logic. It clearly wasn’t meant for _you,_ now was it?”  
  
“Oh, give it a rest,” Sherlock growls. “It’s painfully obvious when you’re telling lies. You slip into alliteration and you don’t even notice you’re doing it. Amateur.”  
  
Mycroft merely shrugs. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you, Sherlock. It is a mystery to me.”  
  
“Missing days, exhaustion, dehydration, migraines,” Sherlock lists on his gloved fingers. “Ring any bells?”  
  
Mycroft frowns. “It certainly rings a few. Have you been forgetting to make a list?”  
  
Sherlock leans over the desk and snatches the card back. “I’d rather you share _yours._ ”  
  
“Uh, Sherlock?” John tries, but somewhere along the way he seems to have been excluded from this baffling conversation. Whatever this is, it’s between the two men currently locked in verbal battle.  
  
“Will that be all?” Mycroft sighs dismissively, tapping his fingers on the desk. “As much as I very much enjoy entertaining your occasional fits of paranoia, I do have quite a busy schedule.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” the detective sneers, “Judging by your ever expanding waistline your fingers are in _many_ pies, I’m sure.”  
  
John listens to all this from his position next to Sherlock, yet other than a brief glance or two neither of the Holmes seem to be paying him any attention. It's like he's not even there, except that they’re speaking in rather cryptic terms, Sherlock especially, and John still gets the distinct impression that he’s being kept deliberately in the dark about something. Would it kill one of them to address him, at all? Acknowledge his presence? _Anything?_  
  
And whether Mycroft truly has any idea what the man is trying to insinuate, he couldn’t even hazard a guess. The older brother appears totally in control of his face, revealing nothing at all except a sort of dry amusement under a more carefully placed layer of outward impatience. If he knows anything about this, he isn't prepared to reveal it.  
  
Sherlock is silent for a moment, but what comes next is completely unexpected, and not only to John. “You gave your word, Mycroft. You _swore_ to me you wouldn’t let them—”  
  
“ _Careful,_ Sherlock,” he interrupts, and there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his expression. John almost doesn’t catch it, but he realises with a feeling of worry that it was an entirely intentional signal. Somewhat more alarmingly, Sherlock goes obediently silent. Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but once again those narrow eyes fall on John, who instinctively steels himself under the look. “Mr… Watson, was it? I’m sorry, but would you mind stepping outside? I’d like to discuss something with my brother. A… family matter.”  
  
“I’m… sorry?” John huffs, looking around in disbelief. “Look, I don’t know what the buggering _hell_ you two are on about"—Sherlock's head whips around in surprise—"But whatever this is, it concerns me too, doesn’t it? So if you have anything to tell us, then you tell both of us, you great… ponce!”  
  
Mycroft’s brows climb comically high on his forehead. Sherlock bursts into laughter. “Oh, I love it when someone has the balls to tell you where to shove—”  
  
“Sherlock, _please_.” And whether it’s the long-suffering look he gives, or the supplicating edge in his voice, but Sherlock’s attitude visibly deflates. Sighing, he turns to John with a conceding shrug.  
  
“Give us five minutes,” he says, holding a hand up defensively when John opens his mouth to argue. “I promise, if he says anything worth the precious air he’s currently wasting, I’ll be sure to tell you about it once we leave. Alright? Five minutes, no more.”  
  
John looks between the two of them, and they all wait in silence, and apparently he has no sodding choice but to go sit outside like a child while Mummy and Daddy have their argument. He storms out of the room, making sure to slam the door shut behind him, because _God fucking damn it!_ What the _hell_ was all that about?!  
  
He's not content to simply do what he’s told. John hovers by the door, pressing his ear to the wood, but disappointingly he can only make out the muffled sounds of deep voices. A few minutes later, furious footsteps approach the door and John hurries to put some distance between him and it. Sherlock leaves the room moments later, calling over his shoulder. “And leave my clients alone, you potbellied wanker!”  
  
The detective is practically speed-walking out of the building and John has to trot to keep up with him. “What was all that about? Did he send me that card? Sherlock?”  
  
“Quiet.”  
  
“But… What did he say? What were you talking about? _Sherlock!_ ”  
  
He brisks out into the street in stony silence and hails a cab, coldly ordering John to get his own before slamming the door shut. John very nearly kicks the panel in as the cab pulls away into the road, putting a truly enraging distance between him and the answers he was promised. He paces on the pavement, his hands clenching and his stomach roiling, trying to make sense of it, trying not to storm back inside and grab Mycroft by the scruff and _force_ him to tell John what Sherlock so maddeningly won’t.  
  
He manages to calm himself enough to make what he considers a very reasonable, rational decision: He is going to call his own cab, and he’s going straight back to 221B. And he isn’t leaving that flat until Sherlock has given him what he wants. One way or another, he’s going to get some answers _today._


	14. Chapter 14

The sunlight is waning and the front door is open again when John returns to 221B, which is just as well, because he’s seeing red and a locked door wouldn’t block his way for long. John storms up the stairs and shoves his way into the flat, immediately claiming the room with his presence.  
  
“Sherlock?!”  
  
A retching sound echos from the hall by the kitchen. John follows it into the bathroom, where he finds Sherlock slumped gracelessly by the toilet, heaving over the bowl. He doesn’t look up when John approaches, but acknowledges him with a lazy wave.  
  
“Probably should’ve listened to the doctor,” he admits. The pitiable sight is enough to soften John’s anger, and he kicks himself inwardly for letting the man go running off across London in his current state; he should’ve known this would happen.  
  
John heads into the kitchen to pour him some water. When he returns, Sherlock shakily takes the glass and rinses his mouth out, grimacing. He doesn’t ask why John is there; he was probably expecting this anyway. But now that he is, John finds himself caught between warring emotions of pity and frustration.  
  
“Look, I understand you’re feeling rough right now, but… But you did promise me answers, Sherlock, and I can’t take this anymore. I’m not leaving until you help me.”  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes and nods. “I know, John. I'm a man of my word. Help me up… Living room.” John carefully hooks an arm over his shoulder and pulls Sherlock to his feet. They shuffle awkwardly together back to the sofa. Sherlock shucks his coat, handing it over to John before curling back under his blanket. “Left pocket,” he signals, and John reaches into the coat, pulling out the small black box he’d seen the detective take with him earlier.  
  
_A recorder?_  
  
It looks like Sherlock was being honest after all; it’s a relief that pulls John a little further from the edge. For a moment back there at The Diogenes he was about ready to fly into a rage when the detective had stormed off without him.  
  
He sits nearby and places the recorder on the coffee table. Here it is, then— finally, he’s going to learn something about what the hell has been happening to them. But now that the moment is here, he can’t help the sick feeling of disquiet in his mind that makes him hesitate, just for a second, before pressing the button.  
  
The recorder buzzes to life. Its audio is slightly tinny, and the voices are muffled, but John can just about follow the conversation.  
  
“—been recruited,” he hears in Sherlock’s voice. “I should have expected this from you. HOUND’s _shining_ success story.”  
  
“I haven’t broken my promise, Sherlock,” comes Mycroft’s cold-edged reply. His voice is more distant.  
  
“What do you call this, then?”  
  
“Orders for your recruitment came from on high. The decision was out of my hands.”  
  
John frowns. _Recruitment?_  
  
“So you say, and yet you’re interfering. Can’t resist playing the puppet-master? How very telling.”  
  
“If I were to interfere, it would only be to help.”  
  
“In what way? Help me, or help HOUND? Must you always be so infuriatingly vague?”  
  
“About this, always. Sherlock, there are rules even I cannot break. If I were found to be directly influencing the outcome of any—”  
  
“But the card?”  
  
“Was delivered to your client, as I mentioned. And could conceivably have come from anyone.”  
  
John isn’t sure what to make of this so far. Up until Sherlock had mentioned the card, their conversation seemed completely unrelated.  
  
“And that’s it, is it? Your idea of helping is in sending cryptic hints I was never meant to find?” Sherlock criticises. “Except, you must have known I would see it. And you _knew_ I would confront you about it. Do you truly take some sick delight in watching me dance along the knife’s edge? If I had a shred of respect left for you, I might not find that so utterly in-character.”  
  
There is a heavy pause. John glances at Sherlock, who stares resolutely at the table as they listen. He's never heard the man lose his cool like this. The hatred in his voice is dripping like venom.  
  
Mycroft exhales, long and heavy. “This is a very complicated situation, Sherlock, and you must heed the guidance you’ve been given. I don’t expect you to understand. Not now. Not out here.”  
  
“You wanted this all along, didn’t you?”  
  
“What I _want_ … is irrelevant. But more to the point, you technically shouldn’t even be aware of it. The test is supposed to be entirely isolated. Blame your little rogue variable for that.”  
  
John’s fists clench. _Does he mean me?_  
  
There’s another silence before Mycroft speaks again. “Listen to me. You’re expected to fail this test, Sherlock. Do you understand?”  
  
“I truly wonder if you’d prefer that I did.”  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“Oh shut _up_. I’ve had enough of this. You’re a hateful, lying toad, Mycroft. All you’ve ever done is meddle in my life, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of _you!_ If you think you can simply manipulate me like you do any of your common lackeys, then you shall have a very rude awakening. Take this program of yours and swivel on it!”  
  
John hears Sherlock’s irate footsteps in the recording, followed by the sound of the door flying open. “And leave my clients alone, you potbellied wanker!”  
  
The recorder clicks off. The pair sit in silence for a long time.  
  
Finally, John exhales heavily, slumping back in his chair. “That was… heavy. And maybe I'm just being dense, but I really didn't understand a word of it.”  
  
“I’ll explain what I can,” Sherlock offers. “It’s a long story. I’ll try to keep it brief. But in the meantime, do you think you could order us some food? Eating is a bore, but right now I’m so empty I think my stomach is genuinely trying to dissolve itself.”  
  
“You really need to look after yourself better,” John says, sounding annoyingly like the nagging doctor even to himself. But even as he says it, he knows it’s an unfair criticism. Sherlock can’t be blamed for this. Despite his medical knowledge and training, even John had almost given himself water intoxication; the instinct to survive is as powerful as it is reckless.  
  
And he has to marvel at Sherlock’s uncanny ability to disarm John’s ire without even trying to do so. Where this soft spot came from, John has no idea. As far as he remembers, they’ve only met once before today. But at the back of his mind, that strange familiarity still tugs at him. He's oddly fond of this capricious stranger, as if they've known each other much longer than this.  
  
Sherlock’s loudly grumbling stomach interrupts his thoughts.  
  
“I’ll order online,” he sighs, pulling out his phone. “Any preference? I’m quite partial to Chinese, myself, but we don’t want to upset your stomach again.”  
  
Sherlock gives a noncommittal shrug. “Chinese is fine. I’ll just have some boiled rice.” He shifts onto his back under the blanket, his gaze growing distant as he begins. “…I was nine and my brother was sixteen when our parents announced that Mycroft had been… recruited, for some kind of special MI5 training program. HOUNDS, it’s called; a smug little acronym for a truly ridiculously named procedure, new and highly experimental back then. It was designed to make it agents immune to pressure-point manipulation.”  
  
John quirks an eyebrow. “Pressure point?”  
  
“Your greatest psychological weakness,” he explains. “Whatever aspect of you can be used by the enemy to break your spirit. Apparently, this test is supposed to involve some impossible problem that teases the agent’s weakness to the fore. Thus exposed, a terrible wound is then inflicted — I’m not exactly sure how — but essentially eviscerating that aspect of the agent’s psyche and scarring it over. Like a sort of mental amputation. The result is a more resilient mind, less susceptible to enemy coercion.”  
  
“Jesus, that sounds more like torture,” John breathes. “And this happened to your brother?”  
  
Sherlock nods, a sad smile playing at his lips. “You wouldn’t think it now, but my brother and I used to be very close," he says wistfully. "He was gone for two whole years. I was excited to see him again, but when he came home it was like meeting a stranger wearing his skin. They’d replaced his heart with a block of ice, and he was never the same after. I've hated him, and everything to do with HOUNDS ever since.”  
  
John’s thumb pauses over the phone screen. “And you’re saying we’ve been recruited to this same thing? This HOUNDS program, or whatever? …They’re doing the same thing to us?”  
  
“Not you,” Sherlock frowns. “I don’t know why you’re involved in all this. As far as I know, they don’t recruit civilians. Our family has long history of… involvement in this sort of thing, usually starting at a much younger age. I don't know why they're doing this to me now. But you? You must be part of my test somehow. Which probably means we’ve met already, inside the test area. You’re important; I just don’t know why.”  
  
“So we have met before!” John exclaims. “That’s the weird feeling we both had the other day! I _knew_ I wasn’t imagining it." He can’t help but gawp in fascination, wondering just how well acquainted they might be in reality. "But why don't we remember anything?”

Sherlock hums, lifting a shoulder. “I can only theorise. I know memories can become locked behind traumatic experiences. Or perhaps they’re using some kind of drug? Neither thought strikes me as particularly appealing.”

A cold shiver runs down his spine. However it’s being done, they’re being repeatedly exposed to it, over and over. That can’t be good. The possibility that it could be causing permanent damage is kind of terrifying, but he tamps it down— worrying over it right now isn’t going to help either of them. Perhaps when he sees the scan results from the hospital, full of scarring and tumours, _then_ he’ll let himself panic.

And this explains so much of why Sherlock had been reluctant to reveal anything to him before. The further thought suddenly strikes him: He is, apparently, just a pawn in somebody else’s game.  
  
He thinks of those scratched-out numbers on Sherlock’s arm, and wonders if they represent people like him, pawns being sacrificed as part of some larger strategy. And perhaps that perfectly explains why they chose him, a soldier invalided from war, after all. Even out of service, his country considers him expendable.  
  
“This test… You’re ‘expected to fail’ it, according to your brother?”  
  
“Possibly,” Sherlock shrugs. “In truth, who the hell knows? He could just be trying to mislead us. He likes to think everything he does is for the greater good; I think he just gets off on exerting his power over others. I don’t trust a word that slithers out of that reptile’s mouth, but if he says the problem is unsolvable then I’m inclined to call his bluff. Mycroft is more mathematically inclined than I, and he’s drawn to puzzles like I can’t resist a perfect locked-door mystery. I imagine he thinks he’s set up a problem that for him is child’s play, but would take me far longer to solve than the time I’ve been allotted.”  
  
Sherlock fixes John with a determined look. “But he would _never_ rig the game. So there must be a real solution; that’s why he wants me to fail. It’s how they will inflict the wound, destroy my pressure point— break my spirit.” He huffs, humourless and full of scorn. “Failing the problem equals passing the HOUNDS test. So what I must actually do is fairly simple, in the end.”  
  
John runs a hand through his hair. He’s been trying to keep up with this, but it’s all too much and too obscure and there’s still so much he doesn’t understand. MI5, government conspiracies— how the hell did he end up here?  
  
_This is mad._  
  
And if the answer Sherlock is proposing is so simple, he isn’t seeing it. Sherlock notices his hesitation and offers a coy smile. “The answer, John, is to solve the ‘impossible’ puzzle— beat him at his own game. He thinks this is going to draw out my weakness, but I won’t let it happen. I won’t let them break me.”  
  
“Fail to win, huh…” John says, rubbing his chin. “And if you solve it, they’ll let us go?” If there was any amount of hope in that question, it dissolves immediately when he sees the look in Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
“…Well. That will be a separate problem to solve.”  
  


 

* * *

  
  
Their food order arrives thirty minutes later. John brings the bag upstairs, unloading the contents onto the coffee table rather than the kitchen so that Sherlock doesn’t have to get up. It’s an automatic kindness that Sherlock nevertheless picks up on, giving him a grateful look that makes John feel warm inside. There’s something oddly endearing about him in such a vulnerable state, especially having witnessed the man’s earlier blusterous peacocking for the sake of his brother.  
  
The mouth-watering aroma of hot food overpowers the dusty air of the flat. Sherlock picks at his rice slowly, while John sets a more ravenous pace devouring his chicken Chow Mein. Between them, one would think John was the one who’d been starving to death lately.  
  
“What do you think that card means, then?” John asks between mouthfuls, recalling the poem written by ‘Brother Grimm’ that was apparently meant for his eyes only. “Why am I being quoted fairytales?”  
  
Sherlock pauses. “Fairytales?”  
  
“You know, Aesop’s Fables. The Fox and the Cat?”  
  
He glances at John, brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“I suppose that’s not surprising. You did call all fiction ‘trite’ earlier,” John smirks. “We had this book, when we were little. This big collection of stories from all over the world. Children’s stories with a moral lesson at the end, you know. Mum used to read to us before bed. There was one about a cat who meets a fox who was fleeing the hunter’s dogs.  
  
“The cat asked him how he planned to escape them, and the fox had all kinds of impressive tricks and clever strategies to choose from. But the cat only had one. So that when the dogs came barrelling over the hills towards them, the cat employed his one trick — climbing a nearby tree to safety — while the fox stood there trying to decide which of his hundreds of plans to enact, and was pounced on and eaten.”  
  
Sherlock crinkles his nose. “What a lovely tale for children.”  
  
John stifles a laugh. “Yeah, a bit gruesome isn’t it? I think that one comes from Germany, if that explains anything. Anyway, the moral being… erm…” He scratches his head. “Well, it was either that sometimes the simplest option is the best one, or that acting fast is better than… being perfect? Something like that. I don’t really remember, it's been years since I heard it.”  
  
“I think I get the idea.”  
  
“…Does it help?” he asks, biting his lip. Sherlock’s eyes roam his face for a moment before turning back to his food, looking thoughtful.  
  
It seems they’ve come to an impasse for now. There’s little more they can figure out on their own. A comfortable silence settles on them as they finish off their meals. John is about to spear the last bite of chicken, when the detective suddenly reaches over and snatches the box from him, burying his nose in it and sniffing loudly. Flinging it aside, he scrunches his eyes and coughs.  
  
“Bloody _hell,_ that’s strong!” he wheezes, his eyes watering.  
  
“What did you expect, you silly sod?” John chuffs with a mixture of puzzlement and humour. “What on earth did you do that for?”  
  
“The smell,” he says, taking a more cautious sniff this time. “Something about it, it’s… familiar. I can almost see something. What…?” John watches his eyes searching through something invisible. “It’s not exact, but it’s similar. The Fox… and the Cat…? Fox, cat, fox, cat…”  
  
He’s chanting the words, desperately clawing at some memory, and something suddenly dawns in John’s mind. “ _You’re_ the Fox, Sherlock.”  
  
His eyes fix intently on him. “Yes… and you’re the Cat,” he says slowly, frowning. “What does that mean?”  
  
John can only shake his head. “Can you climb?” he asks humorously.  
  
Sherlock glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can climb.”  
  
Both of them try smelling the box some more, but nothing else seems to come from it. Eventually Sherlock has to push the box away for good, his stomach threatening to revolt again. John takes it upon himself to clear up the mess. He opens a window to air out the room, and soon the spicy scent drifts away.  
  
John isn’t in a hurry to leave, but it’s getting late; the sun has sunk below the buildings and the sky has already turned a dark, stormy purple. The ride back to Harry’s will feel particularly bleak, especially after the ominous things he’s learnt today. Somehow he feels more vulnerable now than before; to know for certain the horror that lies behind the curtain, that the government is fucking with their heads for some top secret, and most likely _highly illegal_ program, and that his odds of escaping it alive are depressingly bleak.  
  
God only knows what’s happening to _him_ inside this test, but John feels even worse for Sherlock’s sake; the man is being forced through a procedure he doesn’t want any part of. And for what? To join some sort of elite MI5 rank he never asked for? Evidently they don’t give a damn about his wishes in that regard, and John can only wonder at what horrible coercion techniques they might employ to force him into their service by the end of it, given that refusal doesn't seem to be an available option.  
  
And the more he worries about it, the more he’s hating the idea of leaving Sherlock alone tonight.  
  
“Listen, do you have anyone who can stay over and keep an eye on you?” he asks, hovering undecided by the doorway. “You really shouldn’t be on your own until you’ve recovered a bit more. Not if they can do this to you or me again any time they feel like it.”  
  
Sherlock shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “Mycroft is always watching.”  
  
“No,” John shakes his head, “Not that tit. I mean someone… safe. Someone you _trust._ ”  
  
“…I’ll be fine.”  
  
His heart clenches. Sherlock may be putting on a strong front, but John is starting to get a sense of just how lonely it must be to be Sherlock Holmes; without friends, without allies. Stabbed in the back by his own family. It’s no wonder the man is so resistant to opening up socially. He doesn't trust anyone; it’s a depressing outlook on life, no doubt proven true to him time and again, betrayal after betrayal. Even John still has Harry. Sherlock, apparently, has nobody at all.  
  
He hesitates a moment longer, but eventually sighs and nods. “Alright,” he says, closing the door quietly. He returns to the chair and sits back relaxedly, crossing his legs in front of him.  
  
Sherlock blinks, looking bewildered. “…What are you doing?”  
  
John beams a caring, genuine smile. “Being the one person in this world you can trust.”


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re what?”  
  
“I know, it’s a bit mad, but I just want to keep an eye on him. Just for tonight. Anyway, it’s been a long day. I’m too bloody knackered to sit in a smelly cab for half an hour when all I want to do is sleep.”  
  
“John…” She sounds worried. It's understandable. That's why he hasn’t told her about HOUNDS, only that they’ve made progress in the investigation and they’re working on figuring out a solution. Harry doesn’t need to know the details. Whatever she imagines is happening to John is worlds saner than the reality of it.  
  
“I’ll call you again tomorrow, alright?”  
  
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea John,” she pleads. “Is it the fare you’re worried about? I’ll pay it, I don’t mind.”  
  
“Don’t be daft.”  
  
“Well… Will you come home if I pick you up? Please? I’d just feel so much better if you were here.”  
  
How things have changed, he wonders in amazement. And in such a short amount of time, too. John has never been one to hold a grudge, but Harry had once been aggressively mulish about even the pettiest of arguments. Their relationship for as long as he could remember has been about scoring points, seeing who could hurt who the most in the least amount of words. He’d thought it irrecoverable. Her concern is still something new to him. Comforting, if a little strange. But he thinks he could get used to it. Now if only he could get her to stop drinking…  
  
“Harry, it’s fine. Honestly! I would’ve thought you’d be glad to get me off your couch for a day. Especially after that fiasco last night.” She says nothing, possibly conceding his point.  
  
She must get lonely. Harry has been living alone ever since she divorced her second husband three years ago, and that hadn’t been long before their massive family fall-out. John had actually been quite fond of the guy, and he’d laid the blame for their failed marriage squarely on her shoulders. And sure, she’d certainly done her part. But using it as ammo against her had just been the height of immaturity, rubbing salt in the wound. It’s true, that old saying: 'Familiarity breeds contempt,' and it’s a measure of guilt he’ll never fully live down, in hindsight.  
  
_I’ll make it up to you someday, kiddo. Promise._  
  
Harry finally gives in, and after a bit more fussing they say their goodbyes. John hangs up the call, setting his phone on the coffee table with a yawn. Sherlock has retired to his bedroom, leaving John with the couch he’d been occupying moments before. It’s still warm with his body heat. There’s a bedroom upstairs, but it hasn’t been used as such ever since Sherlock had taken ownership of the building when his landlady died.  
  
Sherlock had recalled her with a melancholy smile. Lovely old girl, he’d said. She had been one of his earliest cases, and she’d offered to repay him by cutting his rent in half permanently. He’d accepted — only to make her happy — but spent lavishly on her birthday and Christmas gifts ever since. She used to cook him home-made meals, and she made him laugh when nothing else could. It’s been a year since she passed, and he misses her dearly.  
  
The way he spoke of her was incongruous with the popular image of him as the machine man with the mechanical heart. More and more, John is coming to understand that there is a lot more to Sherlock than what shows on the surface. And that only reinforces his conviction in staying here tonight. Even though he doesn’t have a proper bed to sleep in. Or nightclothes, besides his undershirt and boxers. Or fresh clothes for tomorrow.  
  
Well, none of that matters. He’s slept in worse conditions— outside, in the mud, surrounded by enemies and wounded friends alike. And when he thinks on it, this isn’t much different.  
  
It is bitterly cold, though. His breath mists in the air. He’s drawn the curtains shut, but it did little to insulate the room. The central heating is broken. John lays his coat over the blanket and snuggles up as close as he can to the back of the couch, and he finds himself cocooned in a myriad of unique scents that belong to Sherlock Holmes. He scrunches the blanket to his nose and breathes it in. It’s not unpleasant; weak detergent, a sweet mixture of soap and shampoo, and the mustier smell of pale skin and clean sweat. It's an adequate distraction from his discomfort.  
  
He’s soon fast asleep, but he couldn’t have been dreaming for very long. He'd been watching someone standing on the edge of a roof, and he knew that it was Sherlock, even though he couldn’t see his face behind the colourful mask. They’d been talking on the phone; some bizarre conversation about picking up some milk on the way home. And then Sherlock had said goodbye, tossing his phone away and walking casually off the edge, as if descending a stair. John watched the man falling, and when he tried to scream, the voice he heard wasn’t his own.  
  
It startled him awake when he realised the screaming hadn’t stopped. It isn’t _him_ making that noise—  
  
_What the… Sherlock?!_  
  
It’s definitely him. Calling, pleading, screaming at someone. John’s heart leaps into his throat as he stumbles to his feet, groping in the dark for something he can wield for defence. His grip surrounds the corded handle of something long and heavy, its shape suggesting a cricket bat — _perfect_ — and he sneaks quickly towards Sherlock’s room. The door is closed, and behind it, sounds of panic.  
  
There’s no time for hesitation. John throws open the door, lifting the bat high and scanning the room for intruders. He sees nothing but a lone figure curled on the floor in the far corner, cowering, shielding his head with his hands. Thrumming with adrenaline, John flips the light switch, taking another fast glance around the room to confirm: There’s nobody else here.  
  
He slumps against the wall, dropping the bat. Christ, but that had almost given him a heart attack. He takes a second to catch his breath before crossing the room to crouch by Sherlock’s side, touching his shoulder lightly.  
  
“Sherlock?” he whispers. “What happened? Are you okay?”  
  
He’s shaking. His eyes are closed, as if pained. “S-Sorry…” he stammers, his voice wavering. “Nightmare… I’m fine. I’m fine…”  
  
“It’s alright. I get them too.” John cards his fingers through the man’s curls in an attempt to soothe him. Gradually, the shivering figure relaxes into it. Must have been one horrible nightmare for him to flip out like that.  
  
_Just like I did._  
  
“Want to talk about it?”  
  
He shakes his head emphatically.  
  
He pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Okay. Let’s at least get you off this cold floor then, hmm? Back to bed with you.” Sherlock allows himself to be helped up and returned to bed. Having settled him in, John presses a hand to Sherlock’s forehead; his skin is clammy, locks of sweat-damp hair sticking to his face. He’s slightly feverish, but freezing cold. “Don’t you have some kind of space heater I could set up for you?” he asks, glancing around.  
  
Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible, drawing the duvet closer around him. He’s falling back asleep even as John still stands by the bed, wondering what to do. After some deliberation, and having rummaged through the detective’s closet ( _Sorry about this, but I need to look; where the hell do you keep your spare linens?_ ) he decides there’s nothing else for it. Returning to the living room, John grabs his blanket and brings it to Sherlock, laying it over the duvet for added warmth.  
  
Now, he could go back to the sofa; get dressed, put his coat on. Tough it out, hobo-style. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but he’d do it. The alternative, however, is undeniably inviting— and not just because he’d rather be in a warm bed than slumming on the man’s couch overnight.  
  
He flicks off the light, then carefully pulls the blanket aside and slips into Sherlock’s bed, keeping a respectable distance. He hopes this isn’t crossing some sort of line. Between soldiers, nobody would bat an eye; you slept where you could, social norms be damned. He reasons this is the logical solution, that the extra body heat will help keep them both warm. But as he pulls the cover up around his face, and that same heady scent of Sherlock fills his head, he can’t help but guiltily think this has little to do with his temperature.  
  
“If you’re awake, and this isn’t okay, just let me know,” he whispers. The warm figure beside him doesn’t respond. He’s about to drift off again when Sherlock begins quietly talking, almost as if to himself.  
  
“Mycroft always had time for me when we were younger.” John stills; did Sherlock even notice he'd gotten into his bed? If not, moving now would be kind of awkward. “We’d play silly games, guess at people’s lives on the walk home from school,” he continues, his voice small. “He’d carry me everywhere on his back. We explored the woods behind the house to find new species of mushrooms, tree moss, insects. He’d help me collect samples to experiment with. …I loved him, once.”  
  
John swallows dryly, half regretting his decision to stay despite a burning curiosity to hear more. But when Sherlock shifts around to face him, his heavy-lidded eyes are open.  
  
“We were all happy for him when he was sent away. They told us it was the first step on the path to a dream career. We didn’t know… I confronted him about it, once. A few years later. I demanded to know what they’d done to ruin him so. The argument that followed tore us apart completely. I did get something from him before we parted ways, however: a promise.”  
  
“Is that what you and him were talking about, in the recording?”  
  
He hums. “I never wanted to be recruited. The very thought of it terrified me. I would be 16 in a few short years, and that’s when they typically do it— old enough to have a basic education, young enough to be easily scarred. I was all but destined to be next in line. But by then, HOUNDS had become one of the many projects awarded Mycroft’s personal supervision, and he gave me his word that I wouldn’t be taken. And I, stupidly, believed him.”  
  
His lips press together tightly, and he lifts his eyebrows, as if to say, _‘And look how that turned out.’_ John is appalled by what he’s hearing.  
  
“It was the last time our paths would cross until I was 23 years old,” Sherlock goes on, his expression darkening. “He found me strung out of my mind on coke in some old doss-house. I still don’t know how he was able to track me down; _I_ didn’t even know where I was. I told him to piss off, probably, but he forced me into a rehab facility. The staff were abusive. He didn’t care.”  
  
The chill that skates down John’s spine isn’t from the cold; it’s the bleak history this all paints. A family tainted and torn apart, the dissolution of the sibling relationship driving a bright young man to seek comfort by the only means he could find. And then to be delivered into the cold, unsympathetic hands of people claiming to be professionals, who were probably more interested in forcing pills down his throat— nobody should be so alone, so cruelly abandoned. Least of all someone with Sherlock’s rare and valuable gifts.  
  
John finds it difficult to speak around the lump forming in his throat. “What about now? Do you still…?”  
  
His expression softens. “Not in the last few years. I escaped from that place and eventually got clean on my own. Mycroft left me to my own devices after that, for the most part. Small comfort. His many eyes across the city are always watching. Any time you look into a CCTV camera, John, you can be sure one of his people are staring back at you. It’s as creepy as it sounds, I assure you.”  
  
“That’s good,” he smiles affectionately. “Not the CCTV thing. That _does_ sound bloody frightening. Thanks for telling me that, you git. As if all this wasn't making me paranoid enough already." He scowls, but the smile doesn't fade. "You getting clean, I mean. I’m glad.”  
  
The cold air has dried his lips. He wets them, and Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement, lingering there. It’s almost a temptation to do it again.  
  
“…In any event, I had rather thought by now that he’d kept his promise after all. I should have known better.”  
  
John doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing _to_ say; nothing can erase the hurt this man has suffered at the hands of his own family. John hates this sense of powerlessness; he needs to fight it. He wants nothing more than to march back into The Stranger’s Room and strangle Mycroft with his own tie, the heartless _cunt._ Perhaps he will, consequences be damned. It can’t get any worse, and even a pawn can take out a king if he can be cornered at the edge of the board.  
  
Sherlock buries his hands under the pillow, fixing John with a sleepy gaze. “You didn’t have to stay. But thank you. I don’t really have… friends.”  
  
“S’alright. I mean, as long as you don’t mind. I just figured Harry could do with a break from me. And you could do with having someone to look out for you.”  
  
“She worries about you.” He says it with a measure of scepticism.  
  
John huffs. “I don’t blame her. It is a bit weird, though. We used to be as fractious as you two before all this. But I guess, when things get serious you start to appreciate the people around you more. Family and friends, that’s all we’ve got in the end.”  
  
_And you’ve got me,_ he almost but doesn’t quite bring himself say. Because it’s true. God help him, he’s smitten. He’s not sure how it happened so quickly— then again, they're on more familiar terms inside the HOUNDS test. It feels that way, at least.  
  
Sherlock studies him quietly. Neither of them speak again for a long time, and John is lost in some happy childhood memory until Sherlock shifts, his eyes curious. “What was your nightmare about?” he asks.  
  
John glances aside at him. “Mine? How’d you know?”  
  
“Obvious.”  
  
He purses his lips, clears his throat. Recalling the details isn’t pleasant, but he obliges, keeping it brief and omitting the part where he’d run through the streets afterwards like a complete nutcase. Not that it matters; Sherlock has probably figured that part out for himself already. His eyes grow wide at John’s description of the dark room, the chair. Being strapped down and shocked.  
  
“Same as yours?” John guesses at his reaction. Sherlock looks away, the crease between his brows deepening in confusion. That would be a _yes_ then, John figures. Curiouser and curiouser. Shared dreams now, too? Or, not a dream at all…?  
  
John stares up at the ceiling, his mind turning it over. Eventually his thoughts wander; random, sleep-addled memories coming and going. His eyes drift closed.  
  
“Space heater…” he hears Sherlock mumble. “I’ll look on Argos tomorrow. This is bloody ridiculous.”  
  
He snorts. “It really is. I’m freezing my bollocks off over here.” It sets them off giggling like a pair of schoolboys. They’re both shivering on opposite sides of Sherlock’s queen-sized bed, his idea of contributing extra body heat not exactly panning out well at this distance. John shuffles a little closer to the centre, pausing in case of complaint, but Sherlock shimmies closer as well, and after some more wriggling they’ve almost met in the middle. John rolls onto his side, further closing the gap and bringing them face-to-face.  
  
That’s better. Everything is heating up now. The mattress under them, the blanket hugging their shoulders. His body, tingling as sensation returns to his feet. His face— though it’s more of a flush, seeing the look in Sherlock’s eyes as they gaze into him, those fascinating multi-hued circles of colour searching his face with widening pupils. This sudden proximity feels dangerously intimate; John’s pulse quickens, his body already anticipating something building in the moment that his mind hasn’t yet caught up to. John wets his lips again, and Sherlock mirrors the action subconsciously, his eyes flicking down and back up.  
  
“John?” The ghost of his breath is hot against John’s cheek, and he tries to suppress the pleasurable shiver it sends through him. “I’m sorry. For all of this. That we didn’t meet under better circumstances.”  
  
“Well… They say there’s infinite universes out there, don’t they? Maybe in some of them we met in a coffee shop. Or… I dunno. Maybe we both needed a flat-share. Your nice old landlady still bakes little home-made cookies for us. I’m your live-in doctor who patches you up whenever you get hurt on a case.” He's rambling, he realises, but Sherlock’s frown eases a little, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“I’m sure there’s plenty in which we’ve never met at all,” he counters.  
  
“You’d prefer that?” John asks, biting his lip. _Please say no._  
  
Sherlock shakes his head minutely, closing his eyes. “Surely you would. You wouldn’t be mixed up in all this nonsense. You’d be safer not knowing me at all.”  
  
The sense of hopelessness and regret in his voice is too much for John to bear. Later he would have to admit there wasn't any conscious thought involved at all in what he did next; there was only an overpowering desire, a need to comfort. To feel.

Before he really knows what he’s doing, their cold noses touch. Sherlock’s breath hitches at the contact. Then, as they slide past, his head tilts down to meet John’s lips in the gentlest of touches. John can feel the man's racing heartbeat in the soft press of his mouth against his own, and the world narrows down to just this; warm skin and heavy breathing, and a small sigh that could’ve come from either of them, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. His eyes slip closed.  
  
The taste of him, the smell, the heat— he's wanted this more than he'd even realised. it’s all so much, it’s wonderful, it’s intoxicating, but it isn’t nearly enough. A thrill of excitement is pooling low in his abdomen. His mind shuts down, giving itself over to the overpowering need to press inward, to deepen the kiss. _More. More of this. More of you._ His hand reaches up, finding its way into Sherlock’s bed-messy curls to stroke behind his ear, and the tip of his tongue runs gently, pleadingly along the edge of Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
Sherlock pulls back abruptly, drawing in a deep, trembling breath. John searches his eyes for rejection, acceptance, anything— _Is this okay?_ But his heart sinks instantly when Sherlock swivels away from him, yanking the duvet tight over his head.  
  
Stunned, and more than a little horrified by the reaction, John’s apologies tumble from him in a confused mess. “Fuck— I’m sorry, I didn’t— I thought—”  
  
“Sleep.” That one quiet, choked-out word is enough to shatter John’s heart.  
  
Fuck. _Fuck!_ How did that go so utterly, disastrously wrong? No, forget that; how did he insinuate himself here, in the man’s bed, without invitation? What the _hell_ was he thinking?! Not five hours ago he’d claimed to be someone Sherlock could implicitly trust. Now look at him— too focused on his own selfish interests to notice the man might not want the same thing at all. Just like everybody else in his life, putting their own desires above his own.  
  
But he’d thought, for a moment…? No, it doesn’t matter what he thought. His stomach rolls sickeningly. He can’t stay here. He practically falls out of bed in his hurry to flee. Sod the bed, and the blanket. He’ll get dressed and sleep in his coat, like he should have done from the very beginning. If he wasn’t such a selfish prick. If he wasn’t so…  
  
_Stupid… So fucking stupid…!_  
  
He grabs the cricket bat as he leaves, and drops it on the floor beside the couch. He lies there, wide awake and miserable, as the night hours slip away. Hating himself. Running the conversation through his mind, again and again. _Where did I miss it?_ He can’t see where he went wrong, but that isn’t the point, is it? He’s been blinded by his own _stupid_ infatuation! Sherlock only needed a friend, and that’s the only thing preventing John from fleeing the place entirely, flinging himself out into the freezing night air where he belongs. All he can do is stay true to his commitment, but after this, whether Sherlock will still want his friendship is doubtful.  
  
He lies awake, motionless, for a long time. So long, in fact, that he’s fully aware when somebody quietly turns the door handle and steps into the room, light footsteps crossing the carpet towards him in the dark. But he won’t be taken by surprise tonight.


	16. Chapter 16

As the figure looms over him, some small, hopeful corner of John’s mind supplies the possibility that this is Sherlock, having changed his mind and come back to climb into his arms.  
  
But John catches a whiff of some familiar, alarming scent. Not at all like Sherlock, this is sweet, ether-like; his fight instinct kicks on instantaneously when he recognises the pungent odour of chloroform nearing his face.  
  
Shoving himself to the floor in one swift motion, he grabs the cricket bat and hefts it upwards, putting all his weight behind the swing. It cracks across the intruder’s head with a satisfying impact, a spray of blood arcing through the air as the body stumbles backwards, crumpling easily to the floor.  
  
“Sherlock!!” he yells, launching himself to his feet even as another figure marches through the open doorway. He doesn’t have time to swing again before they level a gun at his chest and fire point-blank, but instead of the expectant gunshot, the air crackles, briefly illuminating the room. John drops the bat, stiffening painfully as a steady shock of electricity explodes through his body in a starburst. He topples backwards with a startled cry, limbs spasming uselessly at his side.  
  
“John?!” he hears over the mad buzzing in his ears, followed by a scuffling noise and the slamming of a door. Something heavy throws itself against the wood until there’s a splintering crash, and a yelp as another taser snaps onto its target.  
  
The second of John’s attackers picks up the rag from the dead grasp of the first, and with a gloved hand presses it firmly over John’s nose and mouth, and— fuck fuck FUCK! He can’t do anything, can’t even hold his breath, he has no control. Panic rises, he can’t fight it! His traitorous lungs take gulps of poisoned air. His senses fade quickly to black.  
  
He’s lying down. It’s cold. The floor rumbles. His arms and legs are bound, and there’s something linen covering his head. And then he isn’t laying down anymore, it’s warmer here and the hood is gone. He peels open his eyes but he can barely see through the watery haze; can’t comprehend what he does see, only shadows and light. He’s barely cognisant enough to notice as something is strapped tightly across his eyes, clasping shut at the back of his skull.  
  
“Whurh…” Whatever he’s trying to say, his tongue won’t cooperate, and it hardly matters because he’s slipping away again just as quickly.  
  
The next time he comes to, it’s to the sight of Sherlock’s brilliant, concerned eyes hovering over him.  
  
“John?” He must have been repeating it until John’s eyes fluttered open. He sits up, momentarily dizzy as a wave of memories comes crashing back into his brain: The Fox. The ballroom. HOUNDS. The victims. Numbers. Amber. Incense. Things begin clicking into place, old and new information slotting seamlessly together.  
  
“Sorry Sherlock,” he slurs, his mind slow to warm up. “I tried. Think I got one of them, but…” John looks up at him, offering a small apologetic smile. But it crumbles away with a startling realisation. “Oh…”  
  
He can’t meet Sherlock’s puzzled look; it all just makes so much sense now. The memories of him here, in this place. It had followed him back. He didn’t have to remember the lustful feelings for them to have had a deep-seated effect on how he saw this man, even out there. It had only encouraged the emotional connection to form. And now, brain and body have come to a mutual agreement.  
  
_Christ. I’ve fallen for him…_  
  
“John. Everyone’s gone.” John looks up in surprise. He’s right— looking around, the space is devoid of life. They seem to be the only two people here, unless the rest of them are tucked away in the side rooms, but that would be uncharacteristic. What’s more, the table is back in the centre of the floor, piled high and undisturbed with silver plates of food and tall decanters of drink, wide dishes and multi-tiered trays. A feast for thirty people who were, now, conspicuously absent.  
  
“Should we check the…?” He doesn’t have to finish; Sherlock nods.  
  
Cautiously, they head for the dark room at the end of the central hall. John can’t help but note how terrible Sherlock looks, and he imagines he’s not looking so fit himself right now, either. They haven’t had time to recover from their individual crises. The nightmares. Sherlock’s last visit here hadn’t ended too long ago, either. It was too soon for all this.  
  
The door swings open. John gasps; it’s lit up, brightly so. Strips of light across all four edges of the ceiling eliminate any and all shadow in the room. Everything is laid bare to see at last, which is not saying much, because the room is disappointingly simple. Square, unadorned. The walls are bare brick and featureless. The only two points of interest stick out like giant, ominous red flags: The pair of bodies lying dead in the centre, and the keypad and display carved into the brickwork of the far wall.  
  
Sherlock steps inside, bending to read the numbers on the poor victims’ wrists. “Seventeen. Nineteen.” They share a meaningful look; the only person left in line now is John.  
  
“There’s never been two before,” John says, stooping to check their pulses out of a sense of duty and thoroughness. “Skipping ahead, is he?”  
  
Sherlock’s attention turns to the keypad. There is a digital display reading ‘336:54:02’ and counting down in seconds. There are three circular, unlit bulbs above the display. “Three thirty-six hours… fourteen days. Fourteen, for Seventeen… or Nineteen? Or both…?”  
  
John has no idea what he’s muttering about, but he assumes it has something to do with Mycroft’s ridiculous puzzle. A dreadful weight settles in his stomach. “Any idea what that’s for?” he asks, gesturing towards the keypad.  
  
“I assume this is where I deliver my answer,” he says. “But the insufferable twat has— Ugh.” he cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, turning on his heels to leave the room. John catches his arm as he passes.  
  
“Woah, wait a second. Does this mean we’re going to be locked in here for _fourteen days?!”_  
  
“Not if I solve it before then. I need to go into my Mind Palace for a while.”  
  
“Your what?”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes impatiently. “It’s… nevermind. Just don’t disturb me.” He shucks out of John’s grasp and leaves the room. John is quick to follow him back to the grand hall.  
  
“Sherlock—” The detective settles himself on a plush velvet chair and crosses his legs under him, shutting his eyes. “Sherlock, we can’t wait this one out like last time. We’re gonna have to eat at some point.”  
  
“Go ahead,” he says. “The food is fine. I thought at first it was the cause of their sexual behaviour, but it’s actually the air.”  
  
John blanches. “What? In the air?!”  
  
Sherlock peels one annoyed eye open at him. “I do _occasionally_ get things wrong. There’s always some small thing or another. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Eat all you like. Just stop talking to me.”  
  
John stares at him in stunned silence, trying not to hyperventilate. It’s in the air? But neither of them have…  
  
Awareness crashes over him like a bucket of ice water. No; it _has_ been affecting them. Of course it has! How could he not have seen that before? Okay, so perhaps for him, having a secret wank to a fit bloke behind his back wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination. But Sherlock? He strikes John as the kind of man who’d have a little more self control than that, and yet he’d seen the evidence with his own eyes: Sherlock wasn’t above being affected by all this, at least physically.  
  
Emotionally, he was the embodiment of Fort Knox.  
  
And now his rejection makes complete sense, because it means Sherlock feels nothing for John _at all._ It’s just this place. It has forced them to feel… whatever the hell he’s feeling, that despite all this, he still can’t help.  
  
“Fuck…” John sinks to his haunches, fists tugging his hair. What a mess. What a pathetic mess this place has made of him.  
  
When he looks up, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his face a picture of stoicism. John’s heart lurches. He almost wishes this sick manipulation had worked on both of them.  
  
_Push it out of your mind. There’s nothing you can do about it now._  
  
His mood thoroughly tanked, John wanders listlessly over to the buffet table. At least they won’t starve to death. He picks up a cocktail stick of ripe olives, giving them an appraising sniff.  
  
_Smells like… olives._  
  
He grips one between his teeth and slides it off the stick. The burst of flavour as he bites down is shockingly good; he sighs pleasurably. What else is here? He spots little morsels of fruit wrapped in thin, dry-cured ham, and gives one a taste. Heavenly. It’s no bloody wonder the other mask-wearers were so keen on this last time. He never would’ve guessed the catering in a government death-trap would be this good.  
  
He pours himself a cup of what looks like plain water. A sip confirms it. There also appears to be wine and fruit juice. Enough to last them both two weeks if they ration, he hopes, but it’s going to start evaporating, and the fruit juice will quickly go off. Not to mention how the food will rot, especially with how warm it is in here.  
  
But they’ll deal with that later. He piles a plate with various snacks — gourmet cheeses, vol au vents, grilled mushrooms — and carries it over to where Sherlock is sitting. “Here, eat something,” he offers. Sherlock waves him away. “Sherlock, you’re still ill. You have to eat. Come on. It’ll help the brainwork.”  
  
He sighs dramatically, opening his eyes to shoot a tired glare at John. “If I eat, will you go away and leave me alone?”  
  
John pretends to be unfazed, shoving the plate closer. In reality, Sherlock’s biting attitude is like a slap across the face, but he schools his expression. “You know, I think I prefer how you are out there. You’re less of a prat.”  
  
Sherlock snatches the plate out of his hand. “Well excuse me for wanting to focus on the problem that’s going to _save your life,_ John.”  
  
John opens his mouth to respond, but snaps it shut again. The detective picks up a vol au vent, cautiously sniffing the crab-stuffed pastry, before popping it in his mouth and chewing. John can’t help a crooked smile as the scowl on Sherlock's face melts into undeniable approval.  
  
He slumps down on the sofa next to Sherlock. “God, I’ve been an idiot.” Sherlock hums in agreement. John playfully smacks him in the arm. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles around a mouthful of cheese.  
  
“Yes, actually, you git. It does matter. When we found that girl— the very first one, you remember? You told me it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t save her. I thought you were just, I dunno. Being nice. Trying to make me feel better.” He sits forward, resting on his elbows over the edge of the seat. “But _you_ need to hear it too. I’m sorry. I should’ve realised this ages ago. Sherlock… none of this is your fault. You couldn’t save them either. You’re doing your best.”  
  
Sherlock swallows heavily, places the plate on the ground by his feet. He stares at the floor. “If you think that’s supposed to make me feel better, your bedside manner needs work.”  
  
John nearly wants to scream at him. “How… the _fuck,_ Sherlock, did you take what I just said in that way?”  
  
He turns suddenly. “Because if I couldn’t save _them,_ how the hell am I supposed to save you?!” he cries, and is storming away before John even has time to process it. When he does, he launches off the couch to chase after him, but the sudden motion causes the world to spin. He briefly loses his balance, toppling to his knees.  
  
Sherlock is back at his side in an instant. “Are you alright?” John’s head is buzzing lightly. He feels tipsy. “Um… Maybe there was something. In the food. After all.”  
  
“Great. Bloody marvellous,” he mutters, picking himself up. _As if keeping my hands off him wasn’t proving difficult enough,_ he thinks in horror. “I get the feeling… I should probably go sleep this off in one of the side rooms.” But Sherlock manoeuvres him back to the sofa.  
  
“No. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Just… sit there, and be quiet. I have to work through these calculations.” He sits on the floor by John’s feet in the same pose as before, his head resting back against the seat cushion. John has to close his eyes to stop himself staring at the long stretch of pale flesh that is his neck.  
  
_Christ, this is bad._ Whatever is in the air is working its magic, bringing him fully erect, and now the food is taking a wrecking ball to his inhibitions as well. He can’t stop the sexually-charged thoughts and imagery once they begin flooding his mind. The only escape is in opening his eyes, but when he does it’s to the very real picture of Sherlock sitting by his feet, the hard line of his own arousal pressing thick against the material of his PJs.  
  
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, laying back and shoving a hand down his underwear. “Don’t turn around. I just need… I can’t deal with this.”  
  
_What are you doing? He’s sitting right there!_  
  
Nice try, he argues with himself, but it’s no good. He tries shutting his eyes again but Sherlock is there too, waiting for him with that same look in his eyes as the moment they kissed. He’d looked reluctant, fearful even. But there was no mistaking his blown pupils, the flush in his cheeks: he _did_ want it. John is sure of it. Or, maybe he’s only sure now, given he's being flooded with a cocktail of testosterone, oxytocin and endorphins.  
  
Fuck, it doesn’t matter. The fantasy version of him wants it, and that’s all he needs. John focuses on that as his fist moves, soft skin sliding over hard flesh, and in his mind it’s Sherlock’s slender, beautiful hand stroking him, not his own. And John is working to bring his brilliant, mad, handsome… friend(?) off at the same steady pace. And despite a vague acknowledgement that he’s technically being date-rape drugged to the nines, he has to admit the chemicals are working wonders on his imagination.  
  
It’s so vivid, he can almost feel the man’s body wrapped around him, and the spiking pleasure every time his fingers run along the sensitive frenulum feels so stupidly good that he isn’t able to stop himself gasping aloud. He should be embarrassed, mortified— anything but _even more_ turned on in the knowledge that Sherlock is right there, close enough to hear everything he's doing.  
  
_At least this isn’t going to take long, at this rate._  
  
He chances a glance down at Sherlock, and has to throw his head back to look away again, lest he come right then and there. “You… having fun down there?” he half chuckles.  
  
“Shut up,” he responds tightly.  
  
“Thought you were busy with your calculations?”  
  
“Yes, well. You’re not exactly helping.”  
  
John laughs somewhat breathlessly, slowing to a less hurried pace. “I did wonder, once. Whether any of this affected you. Then I saw, and…” _—Should I be admitting this?—_ “It caught me off-guard. You, doing that. It was ridiculously hot. I couldn’t help myself. Hope you don’t mind. Just wish I’d prepared for it, so I wasn’t walking around with crusty underwear afterwards. Speaking of which…” he glances around for something to use.  
  
“Oh for _God’s_ sake,” Sherlock mutters, climbing to his feet. John’s eyes follow him across the room to where he yanks one of the silk drapes off the wall. He carries it back, scrunches it into a ball and flings it at John’s lap. “Now _stop talking.”_  
  
“Thanks. Moody git.” Sherlock glowers at John’s defiant smile and sits back down, resuming his own quest for a quick, relieving orgasm.  
  
“You know, you’d enjoy it better if you weren’t treating it like a steak to be tenderised.”  
  
He blows air through his cheeks. “Oh, please John, instruct me on the proper technique for masturbation. I’m sure you’ve got it down to an art form by now.”  
  
“I could, if you like.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
John starts giggling. “Christ. How is it even your bloody petulance is making me harder than—” He doesn’t get to finish the thought. Sherlock drags him to the floor and climbs on top of him before he even knows what’s happening.  
  
“Shut. _Up,”_ he growls, punctuating the ‘up’ with a grind of his hips. They gasp in unison; the pleasure was more intense than either of them were expecting, and John loses whatever self-control he had left. He starts rutting against Sherlock with abandon, hands scrabbling for purchase at the back of his shirt, pulling him in roughly.  
  
Sherlock thrusts against him, their cocks sliding together beneath the fabric of their clothes. His breath is hot and needy in John's ear, and his fingers claw at the mask, pulling at his hair, but he doesn’t mind it, this is just too incredible for words. How did they get here, all of a sudden? He’s so aroused, and so fucking _happy_ he’d let the man bite his ear off if he wanted to, just so long as he keeps doing _that—_  
  
“Oh fuck, Sherlock…” he’s panting, Sherlock’s weight driving against him with urgency. A low rumbling groan against his neck shoots a bolt of arousal straight to his balls, and it was the only encouragement he needed to topple over the edge into a spectacularly powerful orgasm. “Oh fuck… _Christ, Sher—!”_ His prick swells, and his breath leaves him in a drawn-out moan as he keens into the body holding him down, waves of intense pleasure pulsing hot through his flesh, semen spilling onto his skin. Sherlock’s thrusts become erratic, desperate, but he can’t seem to follow.  
  
As his orgasm subsides and some amount of rational thought returns, John hurries to snake a hand between them, intending to help him along, but Sherlock grabs at it and pulls him away.  
  
“Sherlock,” he breathes, “Let me—”  
  
“Don’t,” he gasps, clutching him tighter and redoubling his effort. The grind is turning to discomfort for John’s over-sensitive flesh, but he keeps his arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s form, whispering encouragements in his ear.  
  
“Come on, let it go. Come for me.”  
  
“Stop… _talking…”_ he chokes, trembling with effort. “Just… I can’t…”  
  
“You can, just stop thinking—”  
  
“I _can’t!”_ he sobs, giving in and collapsing heavily against him. “I can’t, I can’t…” his fists clench in his own hair. “They wanted this! And I…” He’s shaking, unable to look John in the eye, almost unable to speak. It looks very much like a panic attack.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey, stop that. Shh… It’s alright. Just breathe, Sherlock. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Sherlock shakes his head pitifully, another sob wrenching itself free from his heaving chest. John is still whispering assurances in his ear when Sherlock struggles out of his arms and onto his feet. “Sherlock, wait!”  
  
He doesn’t stop, heading back towards the newly lit room. John pulls himself together, confusion and fear crowding his mind, and stumbles drunkenly after him.


	17. Chapter 17

As he chases Sherlock down the hall, John is fuming at himself. His pain and confusion are warping into some weird tangle of nonsense in his head, almost visible in front of his eyes as a mess of knotted strings criss-crossing the hall, hanging off the lights and tying up his feet. He bats them away from his face and almost trips when his foot gets caught in a loop.  
  
_It didn’t mean anything,_ a voice is telling him. _Sherlock doesn’t want you. He just needs physical release. He wasn’t seeking closeness. He doesn’t want your intimacy, just a body to drive into. Oh, how you ruin everything by always wanting something more._  
  
“Where are you going?” John calls after him, fingers twitching in agitation. “What did you mean? What do they want? Sherlock!”  
  
“Leave it!”

John catches up and grabs his arm, stepping in front to block his path. Sherlock tenses, refusing to let John catch his eye. “Would you, for once in your sodding life, _tell me_ what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours?” he begs.  
  
_It’s the game he cares about, not the pieces on the board. That’s all you are to him; a chess piece. You're pathetic._  
  
"Are you going to say anything?!"  
  
_Can’t you see it? Can’t you see how worthless you are?!_  
  
John shuts his eyes, clenches his teeth. The voices are getting louder and Sherlock's silence is maddening. He can’t focus. And whether it’s his roiling dizziness, or the fact that Sherlock won’t stay still, but his outline is becoming a chromatic blur, and some bitter, angry emotion rises up in John all of a sudden. Something snaps in him. He spins Sherlock around to throw him back against the wall with a surprised yelp, dropping to his knees in front of him.  
  
“What are you doing?!” Sherlock yells, trying to shove him away. John fights to reach under his waistband, and a strangled cry escapes from above him when he finds his prize. “Jh… Stop it! _Don’t…!”_  
  
John is possessed. With his agency so thoroughly stolen from him, it’s all John can do now to have control over something, _anything._ It might as well be this. Because this is what he wants, isn’t it? This is the only thing the bastard needs from him. Just shut up, stop talking, you don’t matter, you’re not _wanted._  
  
_Do it! He’ll hate you. It’s better this way._  
  
_You’re wrong,_ another voice cries. _He doesn’t want this. You’re only hurting him!_  
  
He growls, forces the voices out of his head. No, he wants this. And soon enough, Sherlock’s protests turn into pleading whines at his relentless sucking, and John has no intention or desire to pull away. He’s holding Sherlock’s jerking hips against the wall, pressing his tongue flat against the hard flesh and swallowing around it. For a while it seems like Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but as his cock swells in John’s mouth, they grip vice-like around the back of his head, holding him still as he starts thrusting roughly into him.  
  
_Yes… That’s what you need. Take it from me!_  
  
It’s over quickly. Sherlock comes without warning, crying out as his muscles clench, fingers digging painfully into John’s scalp. And John chokes, his throat burning as he struggles to swallow. When Sherlock’s grip finally loosens, John wrenches himself off, coughing and spluttering. Sherlock slides down the wall, still shuddering, drawing his knees up to bury his face in his shaky arms.  
  
“There,” John utters darkly, his voice hoarse. “There’s your release. Now you can go back to your fucking _puzzle.”_  
  
He stumbles back out to the sofa and throws himself down onto it, and just for a while, allows himself to feel utterly ruined.

Tears of frustration drip from underneath his mask. The voices are quiet, satisfied. Sherlock was right; he would’ve been better off never meeting him at all. He wouldn’t be here, sobbing like an emotional wreck thanks to how thoroughly his mind has been fucked with by these people. Not to mention the drugs coursing through his system, throwing his mind into turmoil and causing sinister patterns to dance in front of his eyes. He wouldn’t be lusting after and — yes, he can’t deny it — falling in love with a man who can’t even stand his company. Who doesn’t need him.  
  
Even though, out there, Sherlock is so different. So much _nicer_ to him. That's who he's fallen for. They could have been friends, perhaps. But he would never have met that Sherlock at all without this place. God, he’s so confused! He isn’t even sure why he’s crying. He feels like a teenager bellyaching over some stupid school crush. Is that fair? Is their connection really that shallow, in the end? He can’t objectively tell anymore. He doesn’t know if anything he’s feeling right now is real.  
  
_But is anything I’ve_ ever _felt for him real?_  
  
He must have exhausted himself to sleep, because when he eventually turns to squint at the clock, five hours have slipped away. Peering down the hall, Sherlock is still there, exactly as he left him. John silently curses at the ceiling.  
  
His head feels a little clearer now. The hallucinations, and the voices, seem to have stopped. Whatever was in the food has mostly metabolised. It’s a relief. God, that had affected him horribly. Sherlock too, probably. They’d both completely lost control over themselves. He tries not to think of the implications of what he did, how Sherlock had begged him to stop. He can only hope the voices — all of them — had been wrong.  
  
He brings over a cup of juice to Sherlock, placing it at his feet. “Thought you might be thirsty.”  
  
His fingers wiggle with the tiniest of acknowledgements, but otherwise he doesn’t move. John lowers himself next to him with a defeated sigh. A knot of shame and self-hatred tightens in his gut. He wants to apologise, but isn’t sure how or where to begin. Some minutes pass before Sherlock sniffs and reaches for the cup, sipping delicately from beneath the pointed snout of his mask.  
  
“Sorry, for… you know,” he offers quietly, beating John to it. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”  
  
John scoffs. “Well, I asked for it, didn’t I. I’m sorry too. Struth, whatever's in that food is bloody strong, isn't it?”  
  
Sherlock grimaces and places the cup down. A silence settles between them, until Sherlock drops his knees and presses his head back against the wall. “I heard it so often back then, Mycroft’s little spiel. I started to believe it; I started to act like him. But inside, I’m… I’m not what people think of me, John.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me this.”  
  
“I do,” he says, turning his head slightly. “You deserve the truth. It’s not that I…” He purses his lips, struggling to find the right words. “It’s a convenient excuse, convincing people I’m incapable of caring. But I do. I _do_ care, it’s just… difficult to express, sometimes. I care enough for it to hurt, though. We want the same thing, I think. And under any other circumstance that would have been lovely, except…”  
  
_Except…? Oh. Oh…_  
  
Sherlock turns more fully towards him, and when John sees the helpless look on his face his worst fears are confirmed: He _does_ care. That’s the whole sodding problem in a nutshell. He’s been fighting to stay detached, not because he doesn’t want it, or need it, but because of all he stands to lose if he fails. He kept his distance willingly, because he doesn’t know if he can win this — maybe even doubts the possibility — and all the while, John had just blindly walked into the trap. Worse, he's dragged Sherlock kicking and screaming along with him. He’s played both of them right into their hands.  
  
“Do you see what they’re doing?” he says pleadingly. “A sequence of victims, a puzzle to solve. An appeal to the mind. The drugged air, the food, an environment of subliminal eroticism; appeals to the body. Then introduce a single, carefully chosen subject to bond with over the ordeal. To endure it alongside them, grow closer…”  
  
“And they saw that it was working, so they’ve skipped ahead to the endgame… Christ. This is how they’re going to do it, isn’t it? Break you.” He laughs dryly. “And I made their job even easier. That’s why you told me not to do it, not to meet you out there. God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm such an idiot… I’m going to die in here after all, aren’t I?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes harden. “No.” He stands abruptly, heading for the bright room. “No, there’s still time, I can solve it. I have an idea.”  
  
Cautiously optimistic, John follows him inside. The last two bodies remain undisturbed in the middle of the floor; he grimly notes they should store them in one of the unused rooms before they begin bloating with rot, otherwise the stench is going to be horrendous. His attention slides back to Sherlock standing over by the keypad, fingers worrying at his lip.  
  
“Um… You’re not just going to take a guess, are you?”  
  
“Of course not. It won’t be a guess. It’s one of several… well, okay, many possible solutions at this point,” he replies. “Would you agree the presence of these lights suggests I have three goes at it?” He taps at one of the identical, unlit orbs lined above the digital display.  
  
“What happens if you’re wrong, though?” he asks warily.  
  
Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “Won’t know unless we try, and I can’t narrow the problem down any further without eliminating at least one of the possibilities. Do you trust me?”  
  
“I really don’t like this idea.” John clenches his fists. “But yeah… I trust you. Do it.”  
  
Sherlock nods. Turning back to the keypad, his fingers hover over the numbers. John holds his breath.  
  
He doesn’t see the number Sherlock keys in, but he does see the first bulb light up a bright, neon red, a split second before he feels a jolt like a heavyweight punch to the skull. It only seems to last for a second. When he opens his eyes, he’s somehow lying on the floor, gasping for air. Sherlock is bent over him with wild, panicked eyes.  
  
John coughs, drawing a deep, stuttering breath. His temples are searing with pain. “Sherlock? What…”  
  
“I’m sorry! Oh my God, I’m sorry John, if I thought— The damn thing electrocuted you! You stopped breathing!”  
  
John groans. He’s becoming all too familiar with the many ways a person can be used as a human voltage meter. “What did? How… long did I stop…?”  
  
“Um, I don’t know. Thirty seconds? It was the mask, the bloody mask did it! I didn’t know what to do, I don’t know CPR, I just… pressed on your chest until you started breathing…”  
  
_Not hard enough,_ John notes from the lack of cracked ribs. He’s lucky; if he hadn’t come to on his own, Sherlock wouldn’t have known how to revive him. He sits upright, wincing at the throbbing headache behind his eyes. “S’pose I’ll have to teach you, then. For next time.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth turns down. “There won’t be a next time. I won’t try again until I’m sure of it. I swear it, John, no more wrong answers. I’m sorry.”  
  
He’s helped back to the ballroom sofa. Sherlock sits on the floor next to him, a ball of vibrating nerves that can’t seem to stop apologising. He looks distraught. John takes pity on him.  
  
“I’ll be alright, Sherlock. You can stop looking like a fretting puppy.” He opens his mouth to speak, but John lifts a finger to cut him off. “If you want to help, you could go get me some water. My tongue feels a bit… burnt.”  
  
Gaping, he leaps up to comply with John’s request. When he returns, handing the cup to John, his eyes light up with a look of accomplishment. He probably shouldn’t find it endearing, Sherlock’s utter cluelessness, but it’s a struggle to resist.  
  
“All this has knocked your walls down a bit, hasn’t it?” John can’t help a lopsided smile. “That almost makes it worth it.” Sherlock’s mouth softens, but he says nothing, and for the next hour or so keeps a faithful watch over John as he rests off the lingering ache in his head.  
  
It takes some convincing, but John eventually persuades Sherlock to get some sleep before he overexerts himself. The last thing they need is vomit to complete the trifecta of stench, alongside the eventual decomposition of both food and flesh. Sherlock flops down on a pile of scavenged pillows and beanbag chairs shoved against the foot of the sofa (as close as possible to John) and only under the promise that John _will not leave_ said sofa without alerting him first.  
  
It’s kind of sweet, in a very obsessive, Sherlockian way. John lets it slide.  


 

* * *

  
  
Six days later, John and Sherlock are in a very weird head-space.  
  
One of the first things John did, as soon as he felt well enough, was to package up the food in scraps of torn cloth and store it in the coldest room they could find— coincidentally that happens to be the _Murder Room,_ also known as the dark room, which is now the brightest room in the building. Despite the constancy of the lights, there’s a chill air emanating from the unpapered bricks, like a cellar. The drinks are here too, decanters covered over with books to delay evaporation. So far, it appears to be working.  
  
The fruit juice is already a loss, however, and much of the food is starting to smell bad. They ate the more perishable morsels first, which digested so quickly that John spent half a day thinking Sherlock was a horse. What’s left are dryer foods, pastries, pasta, and the last of the meat that hasn’t gone completely hard.  
  
The two bodies have been dragged into the furthest corner of the most distant room, as far away as possible from any place they deign to visit. John prays it’s far enough that the smell won’t find a way to reach them.  
  
Sherlock has spent the last four days in the bright room, staring silently at the keypad. If John leaves for more than a few minutes — a stroll, a bathroom break — he starts sing-song calling him back. John once stayed in the hallway, listening to it gradually rising in pitch and intensity, growing increasingly frantic until Sherlock had finally come barreling out of the room in a blind panic, convinced that John had been murdered.  
  
When he saw that he hadn’t, he’d pressed John into the wall and frotted against him like a man possessed, until they’d both shuddered in wild, delirious orgasms. The only reason John hasn’t pulled _that_ one again is how utterly distressed Sherlock’s face had looked before, and the epic tantrum he’d thrown afterwards.  
  
In the present, John has been trying to get his attention for the past few minutes, unsuccessfully. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he circles around to sit unceremoniously in Sherlock’s lap.  
  
The fox blinks himself out of his stupor. “…Where’d you come from?”  
  
“Behind you, you berk. Eat something.”  
  
“I don’t want to eat,” he pouts. “I need to concentrate.”  
  
“You haven’t eaten in two days, Sherlock. I know it’s distracting, but…” He crosses his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders. “I mean, at least there’s an upside, eh?” he grins.  
  
Sherlock’s frowning mouth frowns even harder. “If I didn’t know any better, John, I’d think you’d rather us spend this time having rabid sex than waiting for me to finish my calculations.”  
  
“Oh, not at all,” John croons, “There’s nothing more exciting than watching you sit on your arse all day staring at a wall and ignoring me.”  
  
He growls, resting his chin on John’s shoulder. “I’m not _ignoring_ you…”  
  
“I know. Will you just eat, please? I’ll get off your lap if you do.”  
  
“Now you’re just sending mixed messages,” he grumbles, causing John to break into a giggle. He gets up, and Sherlock thankfully does nibble on a scrap of something barely recognisable.  


 

* * *

  
  
They’ve been here nine days. And as John wakes up in Sherlock’s arms, both of them stinking, dirty, starving, and unremittingly horny, he can’t quite remember why they’re supposed to be doing anything else.  
  
“This is nice,” he smiles. “Let’s just stay here, doing this. Can’t be a bad way to go.”  
  
“Yes… No. Shut up.” Sherlock’s arms tighten possessively around him.  
  
Their rations have all but run out. The remaining food has quilted over in a mosaic of green-white fur, and the last dregs of water have evaporated. As a result, they’re not as high as they had been a few days ago, but John is dimly aware of the fact that this isn’t quite normal behaviour for either of them. The chemicals have built up in their system over an extended period, and of course, the air remains the same as it always was, keeping them floating in a state of constant low-level arousal.  
  
But by now, they hardly need the additional encouragement of whatever was in the food. It’s just as well, he thinks. Drug-induced or not: At least he’ll die happy.  
  
“John. Do you know what lag is?” Sherlock asks out of the blue. John shrugs. “In computers, lag is a processing bottleneck that causes slowdown. When too much information needs to be processed by a component that isn’t able to handle the load, everything has to slow down and wait for it to finish.”  
  
“Okay,” he mumbles.  
  
“Air resistance is lag. _That’s_ why buildings fall over so slowly.” He announces it over John’s head like a minor revelation. John is baffled by the topic.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be calculating… something?” he asks.  
  
“Hm? Oh. I took a break.”  
  
“You’re going stark raving mad.”  
  
Sherlock is silent for a long time. “You’re… a _cat,”_ he finally says, sounding thoroughly confused.  
  
John hums in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Dubcon, forced orgasm.


	18. Chapter 18

The next day Sherlock is on his feet, pacing restlessly. John watches him from the sofa, chewing a brittle, gross-smelling wafer of indeterminate content. By a stroke of blind luck, he’d found a lost jug of wine and a few bites of food wedged behind a stack of empty containers. The wine, at least, will keep them going a while longer. The food, on the other hand…  
  
“Any luck with the thing?” he asks, spitting out a hard lump and trying not to gag.  
  
Sherlock glances over distractedly. “I suppose.”  
  
“Don’t sound _too_ hopeful,” he grumbles. “What’s it about, anyway? I was never much of a swot in school, but I did get a B in my Maths GCSE. I was great with fractions. Could never quite get the hang of algebra, though.”  
  
Sherlock halts in his tracks, letting out a deep, long-suffering sigh. “If you must know, my running theory is that this is a Modulus operation using the Chinese Remainder Theorem, but in reverse. The victims are co-prime congruences, and the number of days we stayed with each victim tells us the paired remainder. The first victim, number Two, we stayed with for less than a day— that’s a zero, obviously, there is and never can be a remainder with two. You stayed for one day with Three, and then we both stayed three days with Five. Et cetera.”  
  
John blinks.  
  
Sherlock takes a breath and ploughs on. “The problem is there are almost infinite possible answers when you work through this kind of problem from the wrong end. But as more numbered pairs are added to the sequence, it narrows the list down exponentially. 2-remainder-0, 3-remainder-1, 5-remainder-3, 7-remainder-0…" He lists them on his fingers. "But Mycroft must have thought I was catching on too easily, because now he’s broken the pattern to throw me off. I don’t know which of these fourteen days is the remainder of; 17, or 19? Which of the victims do I pair it with? I have no way of knowing for certain, though I could make an educated guess, but I promised I wouldn’t. So it’s going to _double_ the calculations I need to store in memory, and I only have four more days to narrow it down, and I’m running out of paper to write on!”  
  
John glances around. “I don’t see any paper.” The detective resumes his pacing, muttering to himself. “Hang on. So that was a wild guess, before? Thanks for that.”  
  
“I told you, it wasn’t a guess. I had already ruled out the lowest prime congruents, 13 and 103, so I knew the answer had to be either much higher or not a prime number. The former didn't seem likely, given it would begin to take literal months of calculation to figure out if that were the case, and 28 was the lowest non-prime congruent up to that point. I had to rule it out. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have expected it to be quite _that_ easy. I’m sorry I had to hurt you…” —his eyes flit over, openly apologetic— “But it was necessary.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, resting his chin on his hands. “Will you at least stop pacing, though? You’re doing my head in.” Sherlock reluctantly comes to a stop, and John beckons him over. He slumps down tiredly beside him. John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist, drawing him closer. “Give it a rest for a while, hm?”  
  
Sherlock exhales. “This is giving me a bloody migraine…”  
  
“Oh?” John hums. “Lucky for you, I’m a doctor.” He urges Sherlock to lie down, climbing over him when he relents. John nuzzles into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. He lowers his voice to something he hopes is sensual and appealing, but it comes out embarrassingly gravelly and dry. “And you’re a scientist, aren’t you? Tell me, what happens when a man has an orgasm?” He shifts position until their hips meet. The reaction is entirely unsurprising; they grow hard together in seconds.  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. “Well, the… Pudendal and Hypogastric nerves send signals to the brain indicating a state of readiness. Blood surges— _Oh_ …” John insinuates a hand into his trousers. “…Blood s-surges… to the genital organs, as the brain releases neurochemicals in the Amygdala, VTA, Cere— _Oh,_ John…”  
  
“Keep going,” he grins. Sherlock's erection in his hand is warm, swelling to the rhythm of his quickening heartbeat. He pulls on it slowly.  
  
“Cerebellum and… Pituitary…” Sherlock gasps, his breath hitching. “The bloodstream is flooded with Oxytocin and Endorphins. Oxytocin, especially, stimulates m-muscle contractions, increasing the …intensity of… Oh, please…”  
  
His own hands have found their way under the waistband of John’s underwear, kneading the firm flesh of his cheeks and pulling him forward, urging him to grind down. He writhes under John’s weight, made powerless by the fist moving steadily over the glans of his cock. John experiments with speed and technique — a twist at the right moment, fingertips putting pressure _just_ where it’s needed — and is rewarded with the full range of noises Sherlock is capable of emitting, plus some he’s never heard before.  
  
Before long, John has zeroed in on exactly what he needs to do to make Sherlock squirm and beg beneath him, and he doesn’t let up until he tenses, his grip tightening, right on the edge of coming. John keeps him balanced there, and Sherlock bites back a whine of frustration.  
  
“You’re not done yet,” John breathes hot against his neck, causing him to shudder and moan. “You’re so close though. Think of all that Oxytocin in the air, in your blood. How _hard_ you’ll come from it. You want to, don’t you?”  
  
He whimpers.  
  
“Tell me, then. What happens?”  
  
Sherlock swallows heavily. “The… lateral… orbitofrontal cortex shuts down, and… a discharge of accumulated sexual excitement results in rhythmic… involuntary… _uhn, pulses—!”_ His eyes screw shut, mouth falling open, and he moans loudly as John brings him over the edge. He comes over John’s hand, twitching as John squeezes him in waves, milking contractions out of him through a lengthy, powerful orgasm.  
  
The sound and feel of Sherlock coming beneath him brings John right there, too. His other hand moves in to finish himself off, but Sherlock pushes it away, slipping his own hand down between them, setting a relentless pace.  
  
_“John…_ Did you know that a mature boar can produce up to 300 millilitres of semen during a single thirty-minute ejaculation?” he says, right as John is flying over the edge.  
  
“You… _fuck!”_ Sherlock holds him as John keens forward, his hips bucking uncontrollably. When the waves subside, he collapses against Sherlock’s chest, panting furiously. He punches Sherlock in the arm. “You… complete, sodding arsehole! Why would you say something like that?”  
  
“What? I thought you wanted to hear facts about orgasms?” he frowns, looking genuinely puzzled.  
  
_“Human_ orgasms, Sherlock!” he complains, exasperated. “And you were the one supposed to be enjoying it, you tit! Ugh…” His head drops onto Sherlock’s giggling chest, and they breathe together until their hearts settle down. “…In any event, you didn’t answer.”  
  
Sherlock bolts upright, shooting him an indignant look. “Yes I did! I was very thorough!”  
  
“Nope. Not what I was looking for.”  
  
“What, then?” John clambers off him, his smile enigmatic. Sherlock’s mouth falls open. “Tell me! What was it?!”  
  
“How’s your headache?” John calls over his shoulder, heading for the waste room. He snorts to himself as Sherlock’s _‘Ohhh’_ echoes through the hall.  


 

* * *

  
  
Some hours later, Sherlock has resumed his pacing, and John has taken to counting the number of candles in the room. Again. 184, by his reckoning. Most of them fixed along the gilded arms of the ballroom's elaborate chandelier.  
  
_God,_ he’s bored. He squints tiredly over at Sherlock working to erode a footpath in the floor. “How’s it going?”  
  
Sherlock spins to face him, a manic look in his eyes. “There’s not enough time, John. Four days? Do you have any idea how many thousands of numbers I’m already keeping track of? I can’t do it!”  
  
John’s blood runs cold; it’s the first time Sherlock has admitted so bluntly that he may be incapable of solving the problem. They’ve both always been aware of the risk, of course. It hasn’t ever been a sure thing, he knows, but somehow John had always thought it would work out in the end. He has faith in Sherlock’s abilities, no matter what he says to the contrary, but his worry is infectious; Sherlock is losing his nerve.  
  
“Yes… you can, Sherlock. You can, if you stay calm about it. There’s still time. Stop panicking.”  
  
“I’m not panicking!” He grabs John by the shoulders. “But what if it’s _meant_ to be impossible? I’ve been thinking about that card. I think the card is the key.”  
  
“Card? What are you—”  
  
“The Grimm card! What if it was meant to be taken literally?” Sherlock’s expression falls at John’s confusion. “Oh, pull yourself together. Your tolerance can’t be _that_ bad. Remember, the poem? ‘Teach him to climb’?”  
  
“Yes yes, I remember it. But we’re not in a sodding forest. There are no trees here.”  
  
“No, but what’s the one place in here we haven’t been over with a fine-toothed comb?” John shrugs; they’ve looked everywhere, surely? Sherlock extends a slender finger upwards, and John follows his gaze to the sea of lights hanging overhead. “What would you do? What would the _Cat_ do?”  
  
“Sherlock… No.” He shakes his head sternly. “You can’t possibly be suggesting— You said right from the beginning that makes no sense. And I happen to agree.”  
  
“It doesn’t!" he beams excitedly. "That’s why they thought I’d never go for it! And I didn’t, did I? But I’m going to. Right now. I’m getting us out of here!”  
  
The heat drains from John’s face as he watches Sherlock stride confidently over to one of the enormous archways. He runs his hands appraisingly along its edges; decorative ridges and patterns are carved into the pillars, forming the barest of handholds, if one would be mad enough to attempt to climb them. And Sherlock is definitely that mad. As he begins scaling the wall, fingers and toes effortlessly finding purchase, John is torn between wanting to pull him back down, or stand under him with his arms wide, waiting to catch him if he slips.  
  
“Sherlock, don’t. This is stupid! There’s nothing up there!”  
  
His pleas fall on deaf ears. He watches with a mixture of wonder and fear as the man grips the column like a cat, pulling himself up. He makes it over the curved ledge at the top of the arch, a good fifteen feet above the smooth, hard floor. The ceiling is at least another five feet above him, but the slim LED vines hang low enough that he’s able to reach out and snatch one in his hand. He gives it a firm tug, testing its strength.  
  
“I’m going to climb up!” he calls out. And before John can protest, Sherlock’s legs swing away from the wall, trusting his full weight onto the strand. John’s heart lurches. Sherlock dangles overhead, suspended precariously in the air.  
  
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!!”  
  
He begins climbing, disappearing behind the glare of the lights, into the dark gloom of the ceiling above. John’s heart pounds in his chest as he rushes to grab as many soft, cushioned things to throw in a pile beneath Sherlock’s shimmying figure.  
  
Sherlock calls something down to him. His voice echoes through the hall unintelligibly, and to John’s alarm he starts travelling _horizontally._ He reaches over to grab new vines in his path, hopping from one to the next on a stop-starting journey across the room. Lights jingle and dance in his wake as he disturbs them. John has to admit, he cuts a surprisingly graceful figure.  
  
“You’re like something out of bloody Circ Du Soleil!” He yells, laughing despite (or perhaps because of) the nervous anxiety churning in his gut.  
  
Having reached the middle of the room, Sherlock’s feet make contact on the edge of the chandelier, wobbling as they displace it sideways. For a moment he appears stuck there at an awkward angle; his legs are too far ahead of him, unable to shift his weight over. When he swings himself forward, letting go of the vine and relying on nothing more than his momentum to cross the gap, John is almost physically ill.  
  
“Are you quite done trying to give me a heart attack?!”  
  
He’s only able to make out part of Sherlock’s response. “I think …  … the wires!”  
  
“What??”  
  
“The wires, John!”  
  
“I got that part, what— Sod this. Sherlock, come down! Please!”  
  
“… a minute!”  
  
The chandelier creaks, swaying as Sherlock stands upright. And John will always remember this moment; gazing up into the night sky, at Sherlock poised there amidst the stars, like some kind of beautiful, insane, dark angel.  
  
John can’t see what he’s doing, only that he’s reaching up for something on the ceiling. He’s seriously considering the idea of following him up there — if for no other reason than to drag him back down by the snout — when a brief spark flashes at Sherlock’s fingertips, and he recoils.  
  
All hell breaks loose.  
  
The lights burst into bright, violent strobing, and he recalls it too late: The building’s heavy-handed anti-tampering system, the same painfully uncomfortable stimulus that had prevented Sherlock from messing with the doors weeks before. A screech of noise from all directions has John doubling over, clutching his ears. He's blinded by the intense flashes for a full minute before it ends. Plunged suddenly back into darkness, it takes several more for his eyes and ears to begin functioning again.  
  
When they do, he cranes his neck back up to the ceiling, but Sherlock is gone. There’s just an empty chandelier, swinging back and forth on its axis. He spots a gap in the vines next to it. A silken drape is hanging in tatters, torn down the middle. And his eyes follow the line of destruction down to the ground where, with abject horror, they fall onto the body lying bent on its side, motionless under a tangle of fabric and broken lights.  
  
For a moment, John is frozen in place. Sherlock isn’t moving. But then he does; his back curls, his legs drawing up, and a piercing wail cuts through the air — and John’s heart — like a knife.  
  
“Oh my g… Sherlock, don’t move!” His limbs unlock, and John is sprinting over to him in a heartbeat, sliding to his knees. “Sherlock! Can you hear me? Try to stay still, alright? Stay _perfectly still!_ Where does it hurt?”  
  
He’s crying out in pain. He tries to speak, but chokes on the words. John looks him over, fighting to maintain his Doctor’s calm and assess the damage. He begins forming a mental list of injuries.  
  
He appears to have landed on his left side; his arm sticks out straight and limp in front of him. His other arm is trembling and clutching at his ribs. He’s wheezing; struggling to breathe, gulping the air. Part of his mask is smashed and missing, shards of it scattered on the floor near his face, and his eyes aren’t focusing. Head impact?  
  
_Please, God, no… Could just be dazed?_  
  
John carefully feels through Sherlock’s curls, breathing a small, shaky sigh of relief when no blood comes back on his fingertips.  
  
“Can you wiggle your toes for me?” he asks, voice trembling, and is relieved to see Sherlock's bare, dirt-blackened toes twitch. “Okay, good. That’s good. Stay still, just a little longer. I need to check your neck and spine for breaks. Tell me if this hurts, okay?”  
  
Starting from the base of his skull, John begins delicately feeling every one of Sherlock’s vertebrae in turn, working his way down. He tests for unusual angles, sharp edges. It’s far from ideal, but what other choice does he have? He can’t exactly call the man an ambulance. Sherlock is trembling in pain, but remains dutifully still as John feels down the length of his spine, inch by agonisingly slow inch.  
  
As he reaches the end, he’s reasonably satisfied nothing is out of place. But the fear doesn’t leave him as he carefully rolls Sherlock flat onto his back, a lump forming in his throat when Sherlock shouts out and clutches John’s vest.  
  
“Shh, I know, I know. I’m sorry,” he soothes. “Okay, first thing’s first. That arm.”  
  
“Broken?” Sherlock chokes out. John feels along the bones through his sleeve.  
  
“I don’t think so, but you’ve definitely popped it out of its socket. I need to shift it back in.” John shuffles over to straddle Sherlock’s legs, taking hold of the limb with both hands. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. This is going to hurt like a right motherfucker. Brace yourself, okay? On One. Three, Two, _One—”_  
  
He yanks the arm hard towards him, and an abrupt scream makes his ears ring. Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head and there’s a wet ‘pop’ as the bone slips back into place. John lets go, hurrying back up to comfort him, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“That’s it. Well done, love. It should feel a little better now.”  
  
Sherlock’s sobbing settles down as some amount of relief finds its way back into his arm, but he still appears to be struggling to catch his breath. John surmises he must have at least a few broken ribs, and he prays that there’s no collapsed lung— there’s nothing slim and sharp enough here to pierce through if he needed to drain the trapped air from his chest cavity. But a close listen gives reassuring signs; he hears no crackling, and his inhalations aren’t meeting resistance, they just seem laboured.  
  
_Just winded, then. Thank Christ for that._  
  
His chest still needs to be firmly bound to prevent the cracked or broken ribs from shifting painfully. The length of silk Sherlock dragged down with him (which almost certainly saved his life) works well enough for now, but it takes a lot of careful manipulation to wrap it several times around his torso, and Sherlock’s expression hardens in pain when John pulls the material tight, tying it off.  
  
By the end of his field treatment, both of them are exhausted. Unable to move him from the spot, John makes him as comfortable as possible on the floor, sliding soft fabrics underneath him and resting his head on a cushion.  
  
“… _After_ One,” Sherlock murmurs, giving John a miserable look. “On Zero… or after One. Not _‘on One.’”_  
  
“Oh…” he says stupidly. “Sorry ‘bout that.”  
  
It will take weeks for Sherlock to recover from his injuries. That is, if he even survives to the end of this. John sacrifices every last precious drop of wine that remains to ease his suffering; he can go without a drink for a while. Sherlock can’t.  
  
Four days left drifts into three. Then two. Then one. And, on the final day, as John quietly watches Sherlock sleep, he contemplates everything they’ve been through together. Holding his cold, rope-burned hand, John whispers into the dark how much he wished they’d met in any other universe than this.  
  
_But I’m glad we did, all the same._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Graphic description of physical injuries.


	19. INTERMISSION




	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock peels open his eyes, groaning at the steady ache in his chest. It feels like someone has taken a sledge-hammer to his bones. His ribs creak with every shallow breath and the pain follows him everywhere, even into his Mind Palace, which is where he has spent the past three days holed up inside his own head. He hasn’t allowed himself to rest since his fall; he can’t afford to. He _has_ to keep searching. He has to find the key that will unlock the puzzle to free them from this hell.  
  
Something glitters in the dark next to him: The Cat. A very scruffy, dishevelled man, dressed in underclothes that are starting to hang off him like a prisoner of war. Which, in a way, Sherlock supposes both of them are. The hard porcelain lines of his black and gold mask, its paint scarred and flaking, conceal a face of sun-worn skin. A pair of blue eyes gaze down at him tenderly through oval spaces.  
  
_John._  
  
“Wotcha, you mad sod,” John whispers affectionately, stretching his limbs with a groan. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“What time is it?” Sherlock asks, straining to read the clock. He’s laying at the wrong angle to quite see it from here, and twisting around to look properly would be a bad idea.  
  
“Ten to nine. AM, probably. How are you holding up?”  
  
Sherlock makes some noncommittal noise. In truth, things aren’t looking good. His concentration is shot. Pain, nausea and dehydration all conspire to make thinking almost impossible. He’d started to lose hope. For a brief moment, he had taken his eye off the goal to pursue something utterly mad, because some small part of him still hoped there was a clue hidden for him in the card that Mycroft, or his cronies, had delivered to John.  
  
But there was no clue. It was a sham. Just another cruel mind-game to throw him off and waste their time. And all the while, the timer continues ticking down towards their doom. He felt bad enough to have dashed John’s hopes with his earlier honesty, and when he’d decided there was no other option remaining but the longest of long shots, it had only made matters ten times worse.  
  
And now, he was suffering the consequences.  
  
_Stupid._ He’d been so utterly stupid to change tack at such a late stage in the game. He isn’t going to make that mistake again, but it might already be too late to recover from the error in judgement. Still, John doesn’t need to hear that— no more than he should be admitting it to himself. So he doesn’t say what he’s thinking. It would only hurt them both.  
  
John settles down beside him, resting his chin on Sherlock’s good shoulder. He smells awful; sweaty and caked in dirt, among other things. Days of delirious lust-fuelled activity and inadequate means of dealing with the inevitable consequences haven’t helped matters. But to be fair, Sherlock doesn’t exactly smell like a bed of roses either. _God,_ he’d kill for a shower.  
  
“You know what I regret about all this?” John asks, his voice worn and small.  
  
“Everything?” he responds, because it must be true.  
  
John huffs. “No, not everything. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot I wish we could change. Things I’ll think about for the rest—” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and swallowing. “I wish… that we could’ve had a kiss. A proper one, you know. Not like that night, when… But it’s okay that you didn’t want the same. I understand.”  
  
He remembers it: The look in John’s eyes that night as Sherlock had turned away from him. The distress, the confusion. As if he’d inflicted some mortal wound in his sleep, and had woken up to find the bloodied dagger still in his hand and his victim bleeding out in front of him. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure why he’d reacted so badly in that moment. It hadn’t been unwelcome. Indeed, from the moment John had insisted on spending the night to look after him, Sherlock had begun quietly anticipating… something.  
  
And when John had climbed into his bed, he hadn’t wanted to drive him away. John’s presence there was a comfort, not an intrusion. On a more primal level, it had excited him when they somehow ended up huddled together for warmth in the middle of the mattress, their faces so close that he could smell the sun in his blond-brown hair and the faint hint of tea on his breath.  
  
And when their lips had met for the first — and only — time, the taste of him was as captivating as it was understated. Not quite sweet, but not bitter either; that neutral, natural flavour of human contact. The rarest, most elusive joy in Sherlock’s life. It had sent a thrill of longing through the very core of him. It was a taste that refused all categorisation, something uniquely _John,_ and it was wonderful.  
  
He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in it.  
  
But some unnamed, invisible fear had uncoiled in his belly and paralysed him in the moment. On some level, he must have been aware what was at stake if he dared allow his vulnerability to be exposed, and it terrified him to think this emotion could be stolen away, the sociopath lie made reality in a cruel twist of irony. In truth, Sherlock’s capacity to feel was often something that so overpowered his reason, it could be a very real danger to himself and others. Hell, they were living an example of that right now.  
  
Sometimes he _wished_ to be as unfeeling as his brother. Surely it would be so much easier to cope without the trappings of sentiment.  
  
Sometimes. But not always. Most of the time he cherished it. He’d seen his brother’s heart be cauterised, the feeling permanently burned out of him. Compared to that, sentiment wasn’t all bad. He’d been afraid to open himself up at first; he knew this is exactly what their enemies were hoping for. But once it happened, Sherlock’s hand — and heart — had been forced into action.  
  
What scares him more now is the threat of being utterly incapable of it. John had found a way inside his heart as if he’d always belonged there, and perhaps that’s true. He fit so perfectly, it’s a wonder that Sherlock hadn’t realised there had been a John-shaped hole in his heart all his life. And John isn’t the only one who regrets the missed opportunity to have shared a real, loving moment between them.  
  
Because here in their personally-tailored captivity, these masks are more than mere decoration; they form an unyielding barrier that keeps them apart, preventing them from fully exploring their intimacy. It seems counter-intuitive, given that the whole point of this horrible trial had been to draw them together, both physically and emotionally. But perhaps this forced distance maintains a certain tension between them— something subliminal, a longing for more. A denial, but also a promise: _Solve this, and there will be no more barriers keeping you apart._  
  
He’s convinced of it. The only way this will end well is if he succeeds in delivering the correct answer, emerging the victor over this twisted game. Mycroft’s people expect him to fail, and the result of his failure will undoubtedly be the death of John; their way of proving to him that feelings are nothing more than a distraction, something that gets in the way, slows him down, makes him do stupid things. But there’s still time to prove them wrong. There is still the possibility that he and John can escape this without losing all that they’ve gained.  
  
He squeezes John’s hand reassuringly. “Well then, that settles it. You’ll have to come live with me. We can spend every morning snogging in bed to make up for it.”  
  
John snorts. “What makes you think I want to live in your smelly old flat?” he teases.  
  
“My flat isn’t _smelly,”_ Sherlock frowns, giving John his best pout. It works; John’s eyes twinkle with endearment, and Sherlock instantly catalogues it, filing it safely away inside a collection of his favourite John expressions. There are getting to be quite a lot of those, he notes. He may soon have to open a new wing in his Mind Palace just to keep track of all the John-related things he can't bring himself to delete.  
  
“Yes it is. Like centuries old dust,” John says, scrunching his nose. “Do you ever clean that place?”  
  
“…I have a confession,” he admits. “I didn’t fire the maid. I never had one.”  
  
“I deduced that one for myself.”  
  
Sherlock turns his head, smiling at him from behind the shattered eye of his mask. “I always knew you were cleverer than you look.”  
  
“Thanks, I think.” He grins, twirling one of Sherlock’s greasy curls around his finger. “I always knew you weren’t such a git, underneath all the melodrama.”  
  
They start giggling, but a burst of pain in his ribs is a sharp reminder of his broken condition. He hisses, forced to moderate his breathing. John gazes at him with tender pity in his eyes. “Wish I could give you something for the pain.”  
  
Indeed, a dose of morphine would do the trick nicely, he thinks. But it would also slow his mind, and he can’t afford to waste any more time. The pain is necessary; it’s also a punishment.  
  
John starts humming a quiet tune to himself. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Sherlock is quite sure he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, but it seems to help him calm his nerves. Sherlock doesn’t recognise the wordless song; John isn’t particularly melodic, and the key keeps changing, as if he can’t quite remember how it’s supposed to sound. On top of that, the notes keep getting stuck in his parched, scratchy throat, making it all but impossible to follow.  
  
It’s not annoying. Perhaps it should be. But all Sherlock can think is how much he’ll miss hearing it when he’s gone.  
  
_‘When he’s gone?’ Stop it!_ He mentally slaps himself across the face.  
  
“May I ask you something personal, John?” Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye. Something has been playing at the back of his mind, like an itch that won’t go away. John interrupts his own musical humming to hum shortly in response. “You called your relationship with your sister ‘fractious.’ What happened?”  
  
“Oh, that’s been a lifelong thing.” John absently rubs his calloused fingertips over his stubbly, two-week beard. “We were alright as little kids, but she’s always been a bit of a troublemaker. She got in with the wrong crowd at school, started acting out. She was a drinker already at fifteen, if you can believe it. She’d get violent when she was plastered, threw shit at me when we argued… Even with Dad, sometimes. With his temper, I seriously worried one of them would end up killing the other someday.  
  
“We had a massive blowout a couple of Christmasses ago, and didn’t really speak again after that.” He presses his lips into a thin line.  
  
“But you forgave her. Quite recently, wasn’t it?”  
  
He thinks about it for a while. “For a long time I never thought I would. But she’s changed. Done a bit of maturing, I suppose. Both of us have. She was there for me when I needed her most. That’s all that really matters in the end, isn’t it.” He stares at the ceiling. “Poor girl… She must be out of her mind with worry.”  
  
The clock chimes through the ballroom, interrupting the gentle Mozart strings that had been tickling the air from their well-hidden speakers. And with a sharp, familiar buzz and a mechanical groan, the metal doors in the hall swing open. A chill air breezes in over the floor like a breath of frost.  
  
_This is it then,_ Sherlock thinks grimly to himself. _Only an hour left to narrow it down._  
  
“Uh, Sherlock…?” John climbs to his feet. “The door… It’s open.”  
  
“I heard it.”  
  
“No, not on _this_ end,” he says, glancing back at him with wide, astonished eyes. “At the other end. It looks like there’s some kind of lift.”  
  
Odd. Are they being tempted to leave, or do they simply have no reason to gas them this time? After all, this was his final opportunity. He's certain they won't be coming back here again. Or at least, John won't— and if John won't, neither will he. He'll make sure of that one way or another.

“What of it?”  
  
“'What of it?'" John parrots incredulously. "It’s different, that's what. It’s a way out— a _proper_ way out!” John hurries back to his side, hooking his arms under Sherlock’s shoulders to urge him upright. “Come on!”  
  
Sherlock struggles to push him away. “Don’t be an idiot! You don’t know what’s waiting for us out there. Leaving now is as good as signing your death warrant. I’m not giving up on this!”  
  
John somehow manages to pull him to his feet, and a shock of pain causes Sherlock to gasp and nearly topple over. John’s hands are there instantly to support him. He clutches his ribs, grimacing with effort.  
  
“Can you solve it, then?” John asks, gripping him tightly. “What are our chances if we stay?”  
  
“Our chances if we walk out there are nil,” Sherlock insists. “That makes _any_ chance at all better by definition.”  
  
Admittedly that didn’t sound as convincing as he’d hoped. John purses his lips, seeming to consider their options, glancing between Sherlock and the exit several times. When he finally decides, he has to drag Sherlock by force. “I’m sorry, but this time we’re doing what the Cat wants.”  
  
They make awkward progress through the narrow hallway beyond the metal doors, Sherlock stubbornly resisting every step of the way. The air is fresh and cool, wafting down from what appears to be a vertical shaft at the other end. An old-looking wire mesh cage on a thick, rusty pulley sits waiting for them at the bottom of it.  
  
“For Christ’s sake, stop fighting me!”  
  
“John, this is wrong!” he persists, panic rising in his chest. “I have to solve the problem! Nothing else matters, can't you see? It’s the only way!”  
  
“I don’t matter, then, is that it?” he says, not quite disguising the hurt in his voice.  
  
Sherlock grunts in frustration. “That’s _why_ it matters, damn it!”  
  
Despite his best efforts, they reach the far end of the hall, and John leans Sherlock’s weight against him while his other arm pulls open the sliding door of the lift. It squeals with rust and rattles against its hinges, the noise echoing into the empty space above them. Sherlock cranes his head up and sees a long, featureless hole, a single exit illuminated far above.  
  
John drags them both inside the cage. He settles Sherlock down on the floor, propped against the wall in the rear corner. Sherlock watches him slide the door shut again, before turning to notice the control panel fixed to the inner wall. The system appears to be powered; a dirty orange light glows above a series of colour-coordinated buttons. John raises a finger, hovering hesitantly above the one labelled ‘ASCEND’.  
  
“John, _please!”_ Sherlock begs, throwing all his energy behind his wheezing voice in an attempt to appeal to him. “You can’t possibly think they’d just let us go? If me climbing the walls didn’t make sense then how the hell is this any better?!”  
  
“Isn’t it about time you started listening to me for a change?” John turns suddenly, fixing Sherlock with the hardened, barely-restrained look of a man pushed beyond the limits of his patience. “I’ve always stood by you, Sherlock. Haven’t I? I’ve trusted you, even when all my senses were telling me not to. I’ve let you do whatever you want, while I followed along blindly because I didn’t know what the hell was happening!  
  
“But we’ve tried it your way, and look what happened to you. Hm? Sherlock, if we stay and it ends up being the wrong answer, you’ll never forgive yourself. I can’t just stand by and let that happen. I don’t care what happens to me. But if there’s any chance you can still get out of this, I want you to take it. So please, just this once, for the love of _God—_ will you trust me? Don’t I deserve at least that much?”  
  
Sherlock can’t hold back a sob of defeat. Turning back to the panel, John stabs the button with his finger. The lift jerks noisily to life, a motor humming into action overhead. The cage shudders as its pulley begins dragging them upwards.  
  
Neither speak as the cage ascends through the tunnel, but Sherlock’s mind won’t stop screaming that this is wrong. They shouldn’t be doing this! He slips back into his Mind Palace almost without meaning to and begins tearing through numbers like a crazed lunatic. The lift almost seems to be taking pity on him, climbing agonisingly slow towards the light.  
  
The rattling of metal echos loud in their ears as it scrapes against rock and earth. If anyone is waiting on the level above, they most certainly know what’s coming. It takes four whole minutes before an edge of light begins spilling into the cage from top to bottom. When the floors finally align, the whine of the motor spins down and the lift clangs to a halt.  
  
Sherlock emerges from his mind to take in the new sight. They stare dumbfounded through the doorway.  
  
“That’s—”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“—Not quite what I expected.” John slides open the noisy door, peeking his head out cautiously. “Though to be honest, I’m not sure _what_ I expected.”  
  
Sherlock had surmised they were underground; the atmosphere in the keypad room had given that much away long ago. But he had imagined this to be some kind of facility, perhaps a basement beneath an office building, or a factory warehouse.  
  
Not a _cave._  
  
There’s not much to see. It appears to be a natural cavern with limestone walls, a hand-carved hollow space about the size of a large living room. The walls and ceiling are chalky, unnaturally smooth. Lights are strung along the walls, and there are metal boxes of various sizes stacked on either side of the passageway, heavy padlocks hanging from their latches. The mouth of the cave is just a few feet away, open and unguarded. Autumn sunlight shines in through the hole, but the glare of it too bright from this distance to see whatever lies beyond.  
  
Except for the howling of wind through the space, it’s eerily quiet. They appear to be alone here.  
  
“Looks like a staging area,” he deduces. “They bring us in through here. These boxes must contain supplies. Maintenance equipment, cleaning materials. Food and water too, if we’re lucky.”  
  
John takes a quiet step out of the lift, peering around the corners. He checks every surface before daring to move further out, deciding it’s safe enough to explore. From his position in the lift, Sherlock spots some tools lying discarded atop one of the boxes.  
  
“Over there, John,” he points. “See if you can pry any of them open.”  
  
John nods. He approaches the tools, taking a screwdriver in hand and stooping to inspect the lock on one of the boxes by his feet. He cups it in his hand and begins poking the head of the tool into the keyhole. It’s only when he hears the squeal of metal that he realises his mistake— He whirls around just as Sherlock has thrown closed the cage door and is clambering over to the control panel. The lift has already begun its descent by the time John is there, pounding on the mesh, yelling at him to stop.  
  
“I’m sorry!” Sherlock calls out, a single tear rolling down his dirty face. John shouts and pleads, and watches helplessly as the lift sinks back underground without him, carrying Sherlock along with it.  
  
_Forgive me, John. This is the only way. It’ll be over soon; I promise._


	21. Chapter 21

As the cadence of John’s shouting grows distant and unrecognisable, Sherlock forces himself to focus on the task at hand. Forty-three minutes left, he estimates, to deliver the answer that will end all this. One correct answer, out of a list of hundreds remaining.  
  
_What am I going to do?_  
  
Four minutes of travel. The lift jolts to a stop at the bottom of the shaft. Sweating, he steps off the wire platform and gingerly starts making his way back inside the dark, humid place they had been so desperate to escape for weeks. After the brief dose of fresh air, returning to this environment is stifling.  
  
The doors are still open. At least something in all this is fair. He’d been worried that the choice to leave the HOUNDS environment at this point would be committed with finality— no way back, no second chance. At least there are rules to this game, a way to succeed, if only he tries hard enough. As long as he doesn’t give up.  
  
His legs wobble with every step, but somehow he makes it across the open space without support. He hasn’t heard the noisy lift move again— no way to call it from up there? That’s good. He doesn’t want John to drag him back outside, not yet. This will give him more time. John should be fine for a while without him.  
  
_He’ll be fine, won’t he? Yes, he’ll be fine…_  
  
The bandages around his torso are too tight, he thinks. Constricting, like a boa suffocating its prey. He tries his best to ignore it. Pain is nothing more than a sensory stimuli, after all. He doesn't need reminding of his injuries— he’s well aware of the blunt force damage caused by smacking into a hard floor from seventeen feet up, thank you very much, there’s no need to keep bloody _harping on_ about it. Not when there’s far more important things to be thinking about.  
  
Like his list. The list that isn’t shrinking half as quickly as it needs to be. The list that needs to not be a _list_ at all.  
  
He makes it into the bright room and rests his trembling weight against the wall, eyes falling on the digital readout embedded in the brickwork opposite. 00:38:22. It counts the seconds in a steady, inexorable rhythm. Two of the three lights lined above it remain unlit, the third glowing a bright red in a taunting reminder of his earlier mistake.  
  
Not that he’d _expected_ to be correct on the first try, but the sharp crack he’d heard behind him had been startling, and when he’d turned to see John slump to the floor, his body convulsing violently, he’d truly believed he had killed him— _killed_ John. The mask had sent a powerful current through him that lasted several seconds. When it stopped, John was deathly still. He wasn’t breathing, his pulse was erratic, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea what to do with him.  
  
Sherlock has seen plenty of injuries, of course. Bodies. Autopsies. Severed parts. He currently had a jam jar stuffed with human fingers chilling in his fridge, part of an ongoing experiment on tissue degradation. He was no stranger to violence and death, generally speaking. But he’d rarely actually witnessed someone die, nor had he the skills or ability to prevent it. He had no medical knowledge that was relevant to a person who, at the moment, was still actually _alive._

It was one of the many qualities about John that fascinated him.

Point being, _saving_ lives had never been part of his work, and as John lay asphyxiating on the floor in front of him, Sherlock had never felt so utterly useless. He started doing the only thing that sprung to mind at the time: pressing against John’s breastbone, in the vague hopes of forcing his sleeping lungs to wake up.  
  
It had worked— or so he’d assumed, until John later informed him that chest compressions were often ineffectual even when done properly, which Sherlock most certainly hadn’t been doing. John then showed him the optimal position and technique, stressing that you couldn’t ever really push too hard, only too soft, and cracking ribs is far better than being worried you’re going to hurt someone.  
  
Despite being armed with this new knowledge, Sherlock is sceptical that he could actually do it without having a mini-breakdown. It’s primarily for this reason that he vowed not to enter another number until he’s absolutely sure of it. It just isn’t in him to inflict injury on someone, even in the process of saving their life.  
  
His mind flits back to a warm country summer at his family home when he was five years old. It was around the time that Mycroft had developed a brief fascination with collecting butterflies, and he’d taken his little brother into the nearby woods one day, handing him the net.  
  
_“Don’t chase them, William,”_ he’d softly instructed, bending low to speak into Sherlock’s tiny ear, as if the insects could hear them plotting and he didn’t want them to get spooked. _“Simply hold the net ahead of their path. They will fly into it of their own accord. That’s how any good hunter catches his prey— not with a blind chase, but by gentle manipulation.”_  
  
He’d been surprisingly good at it. He spent that afternoon running around thick oak trees and hopping over fallen logs while his brother looked proudly on, watching little Painted Ladies and Red Admirals flit and dance under the wide-leafed canopy. Sherlock quickly caught onto their erratic flight patterns, and before long had helped his brother fill an entire perspex tub with rare and beautiful fluttering insects.  
  
But Sherlock noticed they didn’t stay fluttering inside the tub for long before they would drop to the bottom and stop moving altogether. That’s when Mycroft had explained that this was a _killing jar;_ an air-tight container, tainted with Ethyl acetate to kill the insects. When Sherlock had asked why he wanted to kill them, Mycroft had given him an odd smile.  
  
_“Why, so they can be pinned, of course.”_  
  
Later, his brother had proudly displayed his collection of pretty, dead insects, thin metal pins pushed through their delicate bodies and wings, held open on display inside a large, wood-framed glass case. It was Sherlock’s first introduction to the concept of death.  
  
He had refused to go bug-collecting with Mycroft again.  
  
_"By gentle manipulation…"_ His brother’s words stick in his mind, reminding him once again of the Grimm card. He turns a mental copy of the card over in his mind, examining it from every angle. The expensive paper, the fancy lettering— it just doesn’t make sense. Why would he go to all the trouble to deliver a hint that had no meaning? That just wasn't Mycroft's style.

The card was making a point. It was waving a bright, red flag, screaming ‘NOTICE SOMETHING!’ _…_ But what? What was he supposed to see in it?  
  
Was the poem about the Fox and the Cat verbatim, lifted from the original tale? Or was it made up? He didn’t know. John might know. But John isn’t here. Sherlock quietly curses for having never bothered to familiarise himself with fairytales. Maybe he’d heard a few as a child — they were often impossible to avoid at that age — but long ago had dismissed the entire genre as worthless and deleted it. He only stores the contents of _interesting_ books in his Mind Palace nowadays; Aesop’s Fables is something he most certainly doesn’t have.  
  
But maybe… _Oh!_  
  
“The library!” he exclaims. The library must have something, all he has to do is find it! His feet carry him there with a burst of adrenaline.

When he arrives, his enthusiasm deflates a little upon seeing the utter mess of the room. Clearly nobody has been in here between their visits to tidy up and put the books back onto the shelves. Great piles of them sit scattered about, loose pages crinkling underfoot as he enters the room more fully. Examining one of the mounds, his eyes scan a few titles at random: _Through the Looking-Glass. Gulliver’s Travels. Great Expectations. Treasure Island._  
  
With a groan, he lowers himself to sit on his heels and plucks the last title from the pile, flicking through its pages. Its contents are strangely familiar; it’s about pirates. He likes pirates. But it doesn’t help his current predicament. He flings the tome across the room and begins digging through the pile again, tossing books aside one by one. _The Hobbit. White Fang. Robinson Crusoe. Rip Van Winkle._  
  
“Are these _all_ children’s books?” he wonders. Then he sees it: _Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Volume I_ , according to the spine. The index lists eighty-six separate stories, most of them less than a few pages in length.  
  
_Brother Grimm…_  
  
His eyes drift over the titles until he spots it: Number 75, The Fox and the Cat. His stomach does a small flip at the revelation. Turning to the indicated page, a quick skim of the story confirms John’s account of the tale. But nothing in the story, or its indexed number, seems to give him any further clues to go on. 75 isn’t even on his list. Maybe it should be? Maybe 75 is the answer?  
  
But then, why the tattoos? Why make a point of killing off only the prime-numbered victims? Why set up such an elaborate problem and then discard it for something so utterly random? No, he’s sure he was on the right track before. He can’t change his mind now, not again. Not after what happened last time.  
  
What, then? Something about this book will lead him there, he knows it. Maybe if he compares some of the numbers on his list with the stories in the book? He gives it a try.  
  
“Alright… Sixteen. What are you?” His finger skims the page. “The Three Snake-Leaves.” He turns to the page and reads.  
  
The story is about a knight who wins the King’s daughter to marry, under the agreement that if one of them were to die, the other would be buried alive with them. The princess later falls sick and dies, and the prince is buried alive in her crypt. While waiting to starve, he is attacked by a snake, which he cuts into three pieces. Another snake then revives the first with a leaf, giving the prince the idea to revive the princess in the same manner.  
  
Together again, the prince and princess set out on a voyage to visit his father. The princess falls in love with the ship captain and together they throw the prince overboard. A servant rows after the prince’s drowned body and revives him with the snake leaf, and the pair of them return to the King to report the attempted murder. The story ends with the princess and the ship captain being executed for their crime.  
  
“This… is supposed to be a _children’s_ story?” he frowns. Interesting, he supposes. Wonderfully morbid, but not in the least helpful. He tries another.  
  
Twenty-nine, _The Devil With the Three Golden Hairs._ It’s a much longer tale about a poor boy prophesied to marry a rich girl, and some nonsense about visiting Hell. Boring. Useless.  
  
_This is a waste of time…_  
  
The next few numbers result in similarly meaningless dead-ends: _The Godfather, Little Snow White, Brother Lustig._ He reaches the end of the book. There are more numbers on his list check, but this volume ends at eighty-six. He considers giving up.  
  
He glances, defeated, around the room. This had been a _stupid_ idea, he curses inwardly. More blind grasping at straws, because he can’t do it— he isn’t clever enough, he isn’t fast enough. His internal chronometer warns him there are only twelve minutes left, and despair begins to set in as he realises he just wasted half an hour sitting on his arse reading children’s books.  
  
Struggling back to his feet, he spots it right there in the doorway: _Grimm’s Fairytales, Volume II._ He must have had to physically step over it when he entered the room. Well, if it’s practically going to throw itself at him, he might as well take a look. He stoops awkwardly to pick up the book and finish his pointless task.  
  
_Best be thorough,_ he thinks resignedly.  
  
94, _The Peasant's Wise Daughter._ 107, _The Two Travelers._ 120, _The Three Apprentices._ Boring, dull, stupid. All of them, meaningless.  
  
133, _The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces:_ A King promises that if any man could solve the mystery of how his twelve daughters’ dancing shoes were worn through every night while they slept, he would have his Kingdom.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes gradually widen as he reads this one. The story is as ridiculous as the others, but so many little details leap out at him from the pages: The ballroom, an old soldier returned from war, a time limit on unravelling the puzzle. The doors are locked every night, trapping the characters in. The wine is poisoned— drugged.  
  
But he has to admit that a lot of it doesn’t match, as well. The princesses dance the nights away inside a castle, but this is clearly a cave. And the old soldier in the story refuses the wine, only pretending to be poisoned. Sherlock is pretty sure John hasn’t been pretending— not unless he’s _fantastic_ at it, which he supposes is technically possible, but highly unlikely.  
  
And there hasn’t been any dancing. Just a lot of fucking. Lots and _lots_ of fucking, and he isn’t just thinking about the past two weeks of drugged-out bliss, half of which he can’t even remember, they were so mindlessly high at the time. So, there are plenty of differences. But out of all the stories, if any could be said to fit it’s this one.

 _133…_ He runs the calculation in reverse and finds that the established pattern fits perfectly. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s damn close enough!  
  
His mind decided, Sherlock returns to the keypad in the bright room. Four minutes remain. He exhales a shaky breath— “Please…” —and enters the number.  
  
**1 - 3 - 3 - [#]**  
  
The red light flicks off.

A second later, all three lights turn a bright, happy green.  
  
“YES!” he yells, momentarily forgetting his injury and throwing up his fists in celebration. The stab of pain does little to spoil his elation. A triumphant grin spreads from ear to ear and he laughs, delicately but full of relief, as he watches the display go blank.  
  
_Victory!!_  
  
It's over. They can finally leave! He can’t wait to deliver the news to John. He nearly collapses several times in his hurry to return to the lift. He holds onto the wall as the cage begins delivering him back to the surface.  
  
_I did it!_ he thinks, giddy with excitement. _I bloody did it! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Mycroft! Or better yet, shove it up your fat arse!_  
  
He’s still constructing various smug taunts at his brother’s expense, as well as thinking of the most impressive way to announce his success to John, when he arrives at the surface. But whatever he was about to say dies in his throat. Instead, it is his brother who speaks first.  
  
“Ah, Sherlock. Good of you to join us. Would you mind stepping out here for a minute? There’s a good lad.”  
  
Mycroft, looking well out of place here in his neatly pressed three-piece suit and tie, leans casually on his umbrella. Flanking him on either side are two other men dressed in similarly expensive attire. Sherlock doesn’t recognise the others, but all three of them share the same carefully stoic expression as they watch him step out into the cavern.  
  
“John, I did it,” he offers, still managing an air of optimism despite the unexpected enemy presence. John, who is on his knees nearby, doesn’t turn around. His hands are clasped behind his head, his posture rigid, held in apparent surrender. Another man stands over him clutching a small device, its purpose unclear. His uniform suggests an underling of one of the three officials currently present.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Whatever is going on here, he doesn’t like the looks of it. He slides his attention back to Mycroft, deciding that a good offence usually works best whenever his brother is concerned, and steeps his voice in as much condescending snark as humanly possible.  
  
“Well, that was certainly _boring,”_ he begins, folding his arms. “But then it always is, playing games with you. Do you even try anymore?” They lock eyes and Sherlock gives him a bold, mocking smile. “Are we done having fun, or would you like to play something else? How about a rousing game of chess? Don’t worry, I’ll give you a handicap: you can play with _two_ Queens.”  
  
The suited men exchange glances.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft reproves. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”

A brief, unidentifiable emotion seems to flicker across his features. Sherlock wonders if he just imagined it, because whatever it was didn't seem to match the disappointment in his tone, but that train of thought is quickly abandoned when Mycroft signals with the point of his umbrella.

There’s a loud crackle, and John’s head flies back as if he was just kicked in the face. The force of it throws him to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head as he begins fitting wildly, and the air seems to have suddenly left the cavern, or at least Sherlock's lungs, in an alarming rush.  
  
“St… Stop! STOP IT!” he shrieks, his hands flying to his own head. Bright sparks spit and hiss from beneath John’s mask as it brutally shocks him. “I solved it, damn you! I found the answer! For God’s sake, Mycroft, stop this, _please!!”_  
  
Several infinite, agonising seconds later, it does stop. John's body goes still. Sherlock half falls, half throws himself at his side. He grips his shoulders, shaking him, but John lies motionless, his features relaxed as if in sleep. Sherlock runs his hands across his jaw, his chin, his mouth; the skin near his eyes is a deep shade of purple, burnt and bleeding, wisps of smoke rising from cindered hair. Sherlock feels for a pulse at his neck and finds nothing.  
  
“No, no, you can’t,” Sherlock chokes, his hands moving frantically. “You can’t do this, I solved it, the light was green! I solved it, it was _green,_ damn you…!”  
  
“It didn’t matter, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is calm, unaffected. “It never mattered. Do you understand now? He was dead before you even knew his name.”  
  
“No!” Sherlock presses the heels of his joined hands in position on John’s chest. His throat tightens, eyes stinging with fresh tears. “No, that isn’t _fair!"_ He leans his weight into each press, but his arms keep buckling, his body refusing to cooperate.  
  
“Fair?” Mycroft chuckles lightly, as if addressing a confused child. “Do you think life is governed by what's fair? Do you truly believe the universe has any concept of fairness? Or morality? Good and Evil? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly _found God.”_  
  
Sherlock ignores him. John’s parted lips are turning blue, and Sherlock keeps trying, the pain is excruciating but he doesn’t stop, he _can’t—_

“Humanity's greatest fallacies," Mycroft continues. "They have no effect on reality, no matter how _unfair_ you think it is. Things merely happen, or they do not happen, regardless of what you think of them. It made no difference _,_ did it? No matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried or whether or not you _cared_ enough, it only delivered you here, to this moment.

"All your sentiment ultimately did, Sherlock," he concludes, "is cost you so much more in the end."  
  
Sherlock doesn’t notice the agents converging on him until they’re dragging him up by the shoulders, and by then it’s too late. His ribs shift badly and he cries out, his legs kicking wildly in the hopes of driving them away but finding nothing but air. He catches one last glimpse of John’s body on the ground as they drag him from the cave.  
  
_“He was dead before you even—”_  
  
Something inside him shatters like glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: _Perceived_ main character death. Don't give up!


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock jolts awake, drenched in sweat.  
  
The first week is the worst. Life after John is a blur of stress and surrendered hope. At first, he fights it.

The roiling anxiety returns the second his mind comes back online. It isn’t helped by the straps holding him down, keeping him pinned to the hospital bed as he thrashes, struggling to free himself. His racing heartbeat summons the medical staff. A needle sinks into his arm, delivering a biting cold liquid that spreads under his skin, threatening to chill him to the core. But chasing the cold is a swift, paralysing numbness. It lulls him back to sleep— back to where the nightmares lie in wait.

 

* * *

  
  
The second week is better.  
  
Every day is getting clearer. He no longer lashes out when the staff move him. Now he slackens, retreats into his mind and allows himself to be handled. Why fight it? Things merely happen, or they do not happen. It makes no difference...

The therapy is helping. The pills are _really_ helping. Whenever his mind starts to race, whenever his hands begin to shake again, they give him another dose to chase it away, and soon everything is comfortably numb.  
  
He couldn’t prevent his heart being broken. Perhaps he should have seen it coming, but he was nieve and they took advantage of the fact. Now an enormous section of his mental hard drive is closed off, being held in suspended animation— an archive of encrypted data, password protected and untouchable. When the killing blow was struck, Sherlock had tossed everything he cherished inside and sealed it away. Everything he loves, everything he’s lost, it’s all there, still visible to him, but he can’t touch it. He can’t access it.

But neither can they.  
  
It’s still there, he just can’t feel it anymore. It was a necessary counter-measure; he didn't want to lose his mind, as well. Right now, not feeling is preferable. Not feeling is _good_.  
  
His head flops to the side. He can’t really see through the blur, but he knows his brother is there, sitting by the door in the small, grey room that has been his only world for the past fourteen days. He knows it because he visits every day without fail.  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock.”  
  
“Morn’n,” Sherlock mumbles around his numb tongue.  
  
“How are you feeling today?”  
  
Sherlock pretends to consider it, settling inevitably on his usual response. “Fine.”  
  
The monitoring equipment at his bedside beeps quietly, vital signs supplying steady proof of his fineness.  
  
“The nightmares have stopped,” he adds after some thought. It's true; he hasn't had a nightmare in several days. Hasn't dreamt at all, in fact. A small smile tugs at Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock mirrors it, lost in a pleasant Morphine haze.

“One more week of bed-rest, little brother. Then you can have a bit of freedom in between sessions to get some exercise, stretch your legs. I’m told you’re making rapid progress.”  
  
“That’s nice,” he drawls peacefully.  
  
Mycroft’s eyes wander over the health monitors. He’s no doubt keeping his own fastidious records of his brother’s recovery progress. Probably making sure they aren’t rushing him through it too quickly; it wouldn’t do for him to deploy an agent who hasn’t been fully _prepared_ for the job. Mycroft is nothing if not meticulous in his planning of all things— this whole process has been no exception.  
  
He stands, smooths his suit. “You’ll be evaluated again after a month, after which you can spend a few nights at home before your first assignment. Rest for now, Sherlock. You’re doing very well.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
He looks about to say something else, but changes his mind at the last second. He always does that. If Sherlock cared to, he would ask him about it one of these days. _Why do you always look so…?_  
  
He turns, leaves. The door clicks shut softly behind him. With nothing else on his mind, Sherlock slips effortlessly back to sleep.

 

* * *

  
  
“…Lastly, please carefully read through the following scenario and tell us how you would resolve the situation in a satisfactory manner. Remember that the polygraph is only here to give us an accurate reading; try to be clear and honest with your answer. Oh, and Mr Holmes—” He looks up, meeting the examiner’s false smile. “Please, keep your hands still during the test.”  
  
His fingers cease their strumming against the table. With a quiet sigh, he leans forward to read the paper in front of him.  
  
In the scenario presented, a high-ranking government official is being held in a community centre, along with twenty other hostages, most of them mothers and small children. The building was taken by terrorists during a charity event, at which the official in question was attending in an unscheduled act of goodwill. The media have already arrived on the scene. Police have surrounded the area and there is a tense stand-off in progress. Negotiations have, so far, failed to produce results. The terrorists have warned that any attempt to rescue the hostages will result in a bomb being detonated, killing everybody inside.  
  
Sherlock leans back, crossing his bare legs under the table.  
  
“I assume all the entrances are being observed, and there’s no way to slip inside without being spotted?” The examiner nods, his squinty eyes fixed on the polygraph screen. “Very well. I would start by putting a temporary block on all media transmissions in the vicinity, then have surveillance measure an appropriate distance and angle at which to position a sniper with a clear shot to the target.  A single bullet through his brain will protect any secrets he held— the inevitable bomb detonation will take care of his phone.  
  
“Allow the fire department to do its thing, then send our own team to perform the first sweep through the building and recover any sensitive materials that may have survived the blast. Wait for the All Clear _before_ allowing first responders onto the scene to treat the wounded and dying. The media will be given appropriate statements to read on air, omitting any mention of the recovery team or the medical delay.  
  
“I would expect an 80-90% casualty rate. Any survivors who may have heard the shot should be interviewed, and appropriate measures taken before they leave the hospital. Was that _satisfactory_ enough?”  
  
He waits expectantly. That was an easy one. The polygraph seems to agree, its needle tracking steadily in the middle of the screen. He begins strumming his fingers again, mostly to annoy the balding man sitting across the desk.  
  
“Very good,” he says, apparently satisfied with the result. “If you’d like to slip the sensors off then, Mr Holmes, that will be all for today.”  
  
_About time_ , he thinks, ripping the velcro armband off and sliding the wired bands off his fingers. Having unhooked himself from the cumbersome lie detector, he leaves the office and is guided into another room to change into his own clothes. After weeks of stiff hospital gowns, it feels good to finally be allowed to slip back into a well-tailored suit.  
  
Not long later, Sherlock is striding out of the building towards a waiting car. He slumps into the back seat and starts fumbling in the pocket of his Belstaff, eventually pulling out a white pill bottle.  
  
“Take me home,” he orders the driver, hastily unscrewing the cap. His hands are beginning to shake again; it took all his willpower to keep them still in the polygraph office. Now that he’s alone, the simmering undercurrent of panic — that constant, ever-present thrum of anxiety that has taken up permanent residence in the hollow space beneath his ribs — is bubbling back up to the surface.  
  
It’s a side-effect, they tell him, to be expected in someone his age. Usually people aren’t tested above the age of eighteen, but he was an exception. A _special order_. Someone wanted him personally, though he still hasn’t found out who, and Mycroft denies it being anything to do with him. He still bizarrely swears by his old promise, the one where he’d sworn not to allow Sherlock to be recruited into HOUNDS. That frankly seems a little redundant at this point, but the man’s ego is unflappable to the point of defying all rational sense.  
  
Well, whatever. He isn’t required to know _everything._ Just enough to follow instructions. The pills take care of everything else.  
  
He swallows two of the smooth, white capsules and lies back in his seat. Closing his eyes, he starts counting backwards from ten— a calming mechanism the therapist taught him to maintain control whilst he waits for the medicine to take effect.  
  
_Ten… nine… eight… seven…_  
  
Outside the window, London’s passing streets and buildings casts alternating patterns of shadow and sunlight over his eyelids. When he reaches ‘one’, the knot in his stomach has loosened. By the time the car rolls up to the door of 221B Baker Street, he is pleasantly numb again.

 

* * *

  
  
It has been two months since Sherlock completed the HOUNDS recruitment process, and his days pass like figments of imagination. Brief periods of worry-fuelled cognisance interspersed with long stretches of tranquilized inner-silence, barely recognised or remembered.  
  
Four weeks ago, having been evaluated by the Board of Internal Operations, he was finally allowed to go home. The first night in his own bed since… _that_ night, he spent several hours staring blankly at the ceiling before he dared allow himself to fall sleep.  
  
He’d been concerned that the nightmares would return with the familiar scenery of home, but was happy to wake up the next morning having experienced nothing but a peaceful, dreamless rest. Doubling up his dose that night had been a good idea, a habit he’s stuck with every night since. Better to be safe than sorry.

His first assignment had come a few days later. As an introductory mission, it was simple enough: a matter of tracing the whereabouts of a sensitive laptop that had disappeared onto the Black Market. He tracked it to a dirty, run-down flat in Hackney and successfully retrieved the harddrive, leaving no trace of his presence. Quick, clean and efficient.

By a stroke of luck, the thieves hadn't been home at the time, otherwise he would've had to strike off the "clean" part of that evaluation. There was nothing he hated more than getting his hands dirty.  
  
Presently, Sherlock sits in silence in the clutter of his flat, sipping tea and listening to the distant hum of morning traffic outside the windows. He expects Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea, to arrive with his next assignment today.

 _"A high priority mission this time,”_ Mycroft had informed him, with all his usual infuriating vagueness. _"Something far more valuable than one lost laptop."_  
  
He’ll give it a cursory glance. Maybe ask a question or two to give the impression of due interest, but his main priority will be to convince her to leave as soon as possible. He has other plans for himself today.  
  
At the buzz of the doorbell, he trots downstairs to receive his orders, but the woman at the door isn’t the one he was expecting to find there.  
  
“Mr Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
His eyes scan her over with unmasked disinterest. _(Chain smoker, alcoholic, currently hungover, twice divorced, closeted lesbian, natural blond—)_  
  
_Oh._  
  
He straightens, fixes her with a closed-off look. He really doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Or ever, if he's honest.  
  
“If you’re looking for your brother, I’m afraid I don’t know where he is,” he lies, hoping to scare her off quickly. “I haven’t seen him for several weeks. Sorry.” A dash of truth to make it more palatable, both for her sake and for himself.  
  
“Well… Yes, John is the reason I came to see you, but—”  
  
“Like I said—”  
  
“I know he’s still alive, Mr Holmes.”  
  
It takes him a little by surprise, but he schools his expression; it wouldn’t do to give anything away. “Yes, I’m sure that he is,” he says slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I know where to find him.”  
  
“Yes you do.” She lifts her chin. _(Bold, demanding.)_ “I need to see him. It’s important.”  
  
Can she tell that he’s lying? No, that’s not possible. He’s too good at it, if the past couple of months haven proven anything. He doesn’t know if anybody bothered to contact Harry about John’s disappearance. He certainly never did. He isn’t even sure what he would have told her— what he would be _allowed_ to tell her.  
  
If they told her her brother is dead, then she’s probably just in denial, mad with grief. He can sympathise; he feels a little mad himself, especially having this conversation.  
  
“I’m sorry… Harry, was it?”  
  
“Harriet, if you don’t mind.” _(Hostility? Interesting. Not grief, then.)_  
  
“I apologise, _Harriet,_ but I’m busy today. Make an appointment on my web—”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she huffs, reaching down to rummage in her handbag. A moment later she pulls out her phone, blowing a stray lock of hair away from her face and thumbing the screen for a few seconds before turning it to him. Sherlock feels the heat drain from his face.  
  
_It could just be an old picture..._  
  
“Taken three days ago,” she says, as if his thoughts are written across his face. “So stop trying to fob me off. It isn’t going to work.” He studies her eyes, trying to find the deception in them, but he doesn’t find it. True or not, she believes what she’s saying.  
  
It’s definitely John in the photo, caught in a moment of unawareness. Whoever took the photo is standing in the same room, barely a few feet away, but he must know that he’s not alone— his head is slightly turned, lips frozen mid-sentence as he busies himself with a large duffel bag on the table. Apart from a healing scar on the side of his head, he looks healthy. He looks… _happy._  
  
Sherlock doesn’t dare to believe it, but… “You took this picture?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“My house,” she says. “He came to pick up some things. Says he’s going off somewhere, wouldn’t tell me where. Wouldn’t tell me anything, only that he thinks he’ll be gone a long time and wanted to say goodbye before he left.”  
  
Sherlock rubs his brow. This isn’t making a whole lot of sense to him right now. He didn’t want to be thinking about this today. Why did she choose today? Of all days! All he wanted to do today was numb himself insensate, before walking off the roof of Bart’s before anyone could stop him. He’s been waiting for the right opportunity, a gap in Mycroft's all-pervading surveillance, for weeks.  
  
Now his mind, pacified by the HOUNDS treatment, is being tempted awake again, teased back into motion by a new, cruel hope. What if she's telling the truth?

This is ridiculous. He doesn’t believe a word of it. It isn’t possible— he’s dead, John is dead. John has been dead for months. He _saw_ John die. She’s mistaken, she has to be.

But what if? What _if?_  
  
And now that it’s starting, he finds he can’t stop it. He can’t stop thinking and he doesn’t want to _think,_ not now, especially not about this.  
  
_What if he’s still alive?_ _What would that mean? How did he survive? Is someone helping him? Why hasn’t he made contact? Is he being held somewhere? Threatened? They let him visit his sister, though, so that can’t be it. Then what?_  
  
The only possibility he flatly refuses to consider is that John had been lying to him all along, working for the enemy. But he must admit, that doesn't leave him with a lot of alternative explanations.

Sherlock feels the beginnings of an anxious tremor running through him. “So… Then, what is it that you—”  
  
“Look, I just need to talk to him, that’s all. I’m not asking to go with you. All I want is to be there when John arrives.” He’s completely lost. Go with him _where?_ She looks at him oddly. “Wait… They haven’t told you yet, have they?”  
  
A bead of sweat trickles down his back. The air seems oddly thick all of a sudden. He decides this conversation can wait a few minutes.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he manages, taking an unsteady breath and fleeing back upstairs before she has a chance to respond.  
  
He grabs the bottle of pills from the coffee table. Breathing heavily, he shakes it into his hand and hurriedly downs two of the capsules, throwing his head back and shutting his eyes.  
  
_Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one._  
  
When he looks down, Harry is frowning at him from the doorway. Her persistence is alarming; it’s obvious she won’t be leaving without getting her way. He clears his throat, swallowing around the bitter taste in his mouth. “Look, I’m expecting… a client. If I agree to whatever it is you’re demanding, will you _go away?”_  
  
“Fine,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. The phone reappears in her hand, and a moment later Sherlock’s own buzzes in his pocket. “My number. Call me when you’re heading out.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Apparently satisfied, she turns and leaves him alone in the flat. Sherlock listens to her footsteps descending the stairs, followed by the shutting of the front door. Mystified, his mind chases the threads of their conversation in tighter and tighter circles until it begins to grow slow and lazy again.  
  
Settling back in his chair, he decides to put off his plans for another day. He’ll humour her, if for no other reason than to see what happens when he brings an unauthorised civilian along to a secret mission briefing. If she wants to find herself mysteriously _disappeared_ like her brother then she’s certainly going the right way about it.  
  
But if she’s telling the truth…  
  
Anthea arrives an hour later. She instructs him to pack a suitcase: He’s flying out of the country tomorrow, 2AM sharp. She won't tell him anything about the mission, only that Mycroft will meet him at the airstrip for a briefing before takeoff.  
  
“Oh, and bring those,” she adds, pointing to the half-empty pill bottle with a smile almost as vacant as his current state of mind. “You’ll probably need them.”


	23. Chapter 23

It’s late when they finally leave. The moon sits high and distant, a shining spotlight casting its all-seeing gaze over the streets of London, diffused through a frosty veil of fog and pollution. On nights as dark as this, the roads become black rivers punctuated by pools of white and orange from the streetlights. Lonely headlights drift along them like ghosts in the dark.  
  
Pedestrians huddle up in their big coats and scarves, breaths misting in the chilly air. Sherlock watches their numbers thinning as the car makes its way north out of the city, away from the noisy urban sprawl. The driver is taking them to Stansted Airport, where a private charter plane awaits its classified passenger. The air is bitingly cold outside, but the shiver that runs through Sherlock has nothing at all to do with the cold.  
  
The car had appeared promptly outside 221B at 10PM, and Sherlock had been given enough warning of its arrival to summon Harry with a text. He’d been more than a little unnerved to discover, upon opening the passenger door, that she was already waiting for him in the back seat. Now they travel together in uneasy silence as the car glides along the motorway. Harry watches the traffic passing in the opposite direction across the central divide, and Sherlock watches her with a mixture of awe and suspicion.  
  
“So, are you going to tell me the real reason you’re coming along?”  
  
She flinches minutely at the sound of his voice, and turns to look at him with a guarded smile. “Mint?” she deflects, fishing a roll of brightly coloured sweets out of her pocket. A fruity smell rises in the air to mix with the alcohol on her breath. The combination makes him slightly queasy. He dismisses the offer with a wave, and she gives a wry chuckle before turning back to gaze at the road.  
  
“This is a very dangerous game you’re playing, Harriet,” he warns, watching the way her body sways a little more than necessary with each dip in the road. “I wonder if you even realise the extent of the danger you’re putting yourself in.”  
  
“Right now, Mr Holmes, I think I know the extent of it better than you do.” She keeps her eyes fixed out of the window, avoiding his scrutiny. Even at this angle, he sees the tightness in her features— she’s a terrible liar. If she’s trying to hide her deception, it wouldn’t have worked, not with him, and especially not as drunk as she smells. Sherlock adds this to the sporadic map of clues in his head, his curiosity simmering.  
  
After all this time, here appears John Watson’s sister— coming to him with knowledge she shouldn’t have, making claims she shouldn’t know anything about. _Who is this woman?_  
  
He’s never met her before today, not directly. He knows she had been accompanying John to 221B the day after Sherlock had been returned from a three-day stint in the HOUNDS environment. If he could stand to leave the couch at the time, he might’ve met them both in the hallway. As it was, crawling downstairs to unlock the door for John in the first place had been an enormous drain of energy, and visiting the Diogenes later on had pushed him well and truly beyond his physical limits.  
  
Still. He doesn’t think meeting her earlier would have provided much information beyond what he’s able to deduce now. She’s nervous— moreso than he is, to the point of needing a boost of liquid courage. But that seems to be an age-old habit, so perhaps she's not as affected as one might expect. She seems determined and utterly convinced of her story: That not only is her brother still alive, but that he visited her mere days ago, _and_ that he’ll be waiting for them both at the airport.  
  
Of course, Sherlock had received her at first with a healthy dose of scepticism; even entertaining the idea that it might be true, he can’t imagine any reason why John would have been spared after the HOUNDS test. His 'usefulness' to them had been spent. None of the other poor victims had been set free, and there’s no way that someone with Mycroft’s level of anal retentiveness would have allowed a loose thread like that to dangle in any operation under his supervision.  
  
So it’s probably a lie, that much is becoming obvious, making her current involvement in all this a mystery to him. Her apparent willingness to do the bidding of the very people who murdered her brother is disturbing. Perhaps their relationship hadn’t been as amicable as John was lead to believe, but even if she had hated him, or bore some kind of grudge, what did it matter now? What does she stand to gain? John is already dead.  
  
Unless he _isn’t._  
  
It's an unsatisfying dead-end that raises more questions than it answers, and the biggest of all is how she seems to have known about Sherlock’s new assignment before even _he_ did. How is that possible? Anthea had only delivered the briefing documents later, after Harry took off. There’s no way she could have seen them.  
  
She can’t have this level of security clearance, unless… But no, she’s _definitely_ a civilian. He can tell by the way she moves— imprecise, barely under her own inebriated control. And the way she dresses— the long skirt, fur-lined coat, thick winter gloves. Her long hair allowed to tumble loosely about her shoulders. It’s all too casual. She lacks a readiness for the unexpected, which is an ever-present threat in this line of work. Even Sherlock’s heavy Belstaff remains unbuttoned in all but the frostiest conditions, ready to be shed at a moment’s notice, leaving him free to move and react quickly to any situation. His primly cut suits and well-fitted shoes aren’t just to show off his admittedly good taste.  
  
Whatever her involvement in all this, it must be something personal. Something about John, or…  
  
_Ah._  
  
The pieces begin slotting into place in a configuration that, to his dismay, makes all too much sense, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach.

 _Damn._ Is he really that obvious? Was his behaviour so transparent, his plans so expected that Mycroft knew exactly who to send knocking at his door and when— down to the very day he’d planned to jump? Without Harry’s intervention he’d most certainly be dead by this hour. Her sudden appearance had been enough to ignite a small flame of hope that he hadn’t dared examine any closer for fear that the slightest ill wind would snuff it out, he’d wanted _so badly_ for it to be true. He’d actually believed her at face value about the photo of John, so blindly that she hadn’t even needed to prove it to him. He didn't even ask.  
  
And so it goes, that by careful manipulation the butterfly flies willingly into the net.

Despite the cosy air-conditioned warmth inside the car, he feels a cold breeze passing through him, extinguishing the flame. “You’re not here to see John at all,” he says, his eyes falling shut. “You’re working for Mycroft.”  
  
There’s a bark of laughter, stifled with a cotton-gloved hand over her mouth. “Is that what you think?” She smirks at him, amusement playing sloppily across her face.  
  
“It’s the only explanation that fits all of the data.”  
  
“Believe what you like,” she says, lifting her shoulders. “Makes no difference to me.”  
  
He grimaces at her unfortunate choice of words. Yes, it makes no difference, does it? And once again he’s being punished for thinking otherwise. The universe may have no concept of fairness or justice but it certainly seems to have a cruel sense of humour. Tiring, how it always seems to be at his expense.  
  
No, what would be _truly_ unfair is for him to blame anything but himself for this.  
  
Harry is clearly denying the obvious, she’s too tipsy to make it a convincing performance, and Sherlock is certain of it now: This is a trap. His brother knows, perhaps knew all along that they hadn’t totally broken him. Had they ever truly expected he would be? Oh, how he must have enjoyed watching Sherlock play along in the charade. That’s why he had been watching Sherlock so closely during his recovery, isn't it? He should have known— nothing escapes that man’s hawk-like attention. He’d been an idiot to think otherwise.  
  
Sherlock briefly catches the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, and a shiver of dread runs through him beneath his thick coat. Is he in on it, too? Most likely. Anyone who works for Mycroft is an enemy and Sherlock is surrounded by them now. He reaches for his pills, but changes his mind— he can’t risk it. If he’s about to walk into a trap, he can’t be slow. He'll just have to tamp down the building anxiety in him for long enough, just long enough to escape, and when he's safe enough he can indulge in chemical relief in whatever form he can acquire and in enough quantity to send him spiralling away into the black without a return trip.  
  
But that will be later, and only _if_ he makes it out of this. He straightens in his seat, smoothing his coat and doing his best to act nonchalant for the rest of the journey, but his own growing paranoia of the situation makes him hyper-aware of every time he fidgets like someone trying to act like everything’s fine and failing horribly at it. As Stanstead grows closer, his self-control begins to fray.  
  
An hour or so later, they arrive at the airport.  
  
The car pulls into a private parking area, outside an administration building some distance from the public terminals. Blinds are drawn over the windows, but the lights are clearly on inside, visible as thin strips of light peeking through the gaps in the slats. There’s no foot traffic here at this hour; one might assume the building is empty, but a pair of dark-suited men await them at the curb as Sherlock and Harry climb out of the car, Harry fumbling for a moment with her door and Sherlock wound so tight with nerves he feels ready to have a minor meltdown.  
  
The men barely glance at the woman, and one of them gestures towards the building. “Come with us.”  
  
Sherlock hesitates, allowing Harry to take the lead.  
  
_I could turn and flee now,_ he considers, noting that their welcoming party doesn’t appear to be very concerned whether or not he follows them inside, but the driver is apparently staying put and he probably won’t get far attempting to outrun an Audi. Conceding that he has no other choice for now, he follows Harry inside, soon catching up with the group. He instinctively begins mapping his path, noting all doors and emergency exits should a quick retreat become necessary.  
  
At least it’s warm here. Sherlock loosens his scarf, but then stuffs his jittery hands back into his coat pockets. Their small convoy passes through brightly lit corridors, through a small empty canteen and then through another door, this one hung with a ‘Staff Only’ label. As they enter a large conference room, Sherlock is keenly aware that they didn’t see or pass by anyone else in the building. _No potential witnesses._ Nobody here but him, Harry, and Mycroft’s cronies. It doesn’t fill him with confidence.  
  
“Wait here, please.” The blank-faced agents leave them alone in the room. Harry sinks into a plush seat facing the windows, looking instantly bored. Outside, passenger jets taxi into and out of the runway lines, and she pulls out her phone, snapping a few shots before growing restless again, and now the fruity sweets have reappeared.  
  
Sherlock hovers uselessly nearby, fingering the bottle in his pocket. He’s too unsettled to sit. A subtle glance about the room reveals a security camera in the corner by the door, but its head is swivelled towards the nearest wall. It does nothing to convince him they aren’t somehow still being watched.  
  
Some minutes later, the door opens again, and through it steps Mycroft, followed closely by his ever-distracted personal assistant, Anthea. He has that look about him again, Sherlock notices— the one he’d seen so often during his recovery in the medical ward. Something distinctly enigmatic, not common in Mycroft's narrow repetoire of looks. Something close to concern, perhaps, if he was capable of such a thing. Not concern then. Anticipation? Whatever it is he seems tense, and in Sherlock’s experience that’s never a good sign. Nevertheless, Mycroft smiles thinly at him now, and Sherlock deliberately returns an expression of bored disinterest rather than the outright disdain he'd prefer to display.  
  
“Here I am then,” Sherlock sniffs, deciding to get the first word in. Maybe it'll give him the advantage in whatever verbal sparring match is about to commence between them. But Mycroft’s gaze shifts to something over his shoulder and his tension visibly increases.  
  
“I see you’ve brought a… _guest._ Surely you’re aware that your duties here aren’t for civilian eyes?”  
  
Sherlock can't help but be grudgingly impressed by the act. It’s truly chilling how easily the man conceals his intentions, even to his own brother; anyone else would be completely convinced by the performance. Sherlock twists around, spying Harry’s reflection in the windows. She doesn’t get up, doesn’t even look up from her phone, and suddenly he wants to catch her eye, if only to deliver a look of pained betrayal to the only person in the room whom it might have any effect on. But she ignores them.  
  
“Oh, don’t mind her. She’s just here to see her brother,” he says meaningfully, turning back to Mycroft. _“Will_ she?”  
  
The older brother’s eyes widen in a perfect simulacrum of surprise. “How…?” he begins, but Sherlock nips it in the bud, stepping forward with an intense look.  
  
“Shall we both stop pretending? Let’s cut to the part where I’m dragged back underground to play more of your mindgames, because that’s _really_ why I’m here, isn’t it?” He can’t suppress the emotion in his voice anymore. His eyes sting and his rage threatens to boil over. He’s been cornered like a frightened animal and now the only thing left is to lash out, even though he knows it’s useless.  
  
Mycroft regards him for a long moment, as if considering his response, and finally he turns away, moving back to the door and cracking it open a few inches, beckoning his cronies into the room.  
  
Except that’s not who appears. The man who answers Mycroft’s call isn’t some tall, sullen-faced drone in a dark suit and a wire over his ear. He doesn’t march in, hands outstretched to haul Sherlock away in defeat. And Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, even as John’s slow, unsure smile spreads across his features.

 _John._ John is _here._ John is _alive!_ Harry was telling the truth, after all.  
  
The door is shut again and Mycroft stands beside him, and the only thing wrong about this is that John is still standing there in his company. John’s expression wilts a little, reading the thoughts that must be displayed openly in Sherlock’s eyes, and when he takes a step forward Sherlock flinches back as if the proximity could burn him.  
  
“Sherlock?” he says tentatively, and the painfully familiar voice brings a flood of memories with it, as if it alone holds the key to Sherlock’s locked archive of emotions. Sherlock’s resolve crumbles, and his hands move on auto-pilot to retrieve his pills, shaking out some amount — he doesn’t look, doesn’t care how many — swallowing them down before his body betrays him completely.  
  
He’s close to hyperventilating, but somehow finds the strength to speak. “You… had better explain this. To me. Because… I won’t believe it until I hear you say it.”  
  
John’s expression remains open, but a crease of confusion appears between his brows. “Believe… that I’m alive, you mean? I know. I know it must be a shock—”  
  
“No, I can see that well enough,” he interrupts, wincing at the burn rising in his throat. “Just tell me the truth: Were you in on it, the whole time? Or did he… Did he bribe you, somehow? Threaten you?”  
  
It takes him a moment to process this, but when he does, John’s mouth falls open and his hands reach out plaintively. “Oh God, no! Sherlock, no, no you’ve got it wrong, I was never part of it! Not on their side of it, anyway,” he shakes his head ardently. “I never lied to you. I was captive in that place every bit as much as you were.”  
  
Sherlock’s hands clench painfully in his pockets. “You say that, and God knows I want to believe it. And yet I find I’ve been lured here by the combined persuasions of you and your sister, both under the employ of _him.”_ He glances pointedly at his brother. “So right now, John, I honestly don’t know what to believe.”  
  
This time both of the men facing him look confused, and John looks ready to say something else, except that’s when Harry chooses to turn around in her seat and lean over the back of the chair with her phone clutched in both hands. A low-fi camera shutter rings out through the room, and all eyes turn towards her.  
  
The shutter noise happens again. Then the phone is tucked away and she stands, shouldering her handbag as if to leave.  
  
John, having not noticed her there until now, and looking completely taken aback, asks what is surely the foremost question on everybody’s minds. “Harry? Christ, what are _you_ doing here?”  
  
She meets his eyes with a sad kind of smile. “Sorry love, but I can’t stay for a chat. I got what I came for.”  
  
“Sherlock, what is this?” Mycroft speaks, his voice layered with an unexpected touch of urgency. “Why did you bring her here?”  
  
And suddenly Sherlock has no idea.  
  
“Didn’t mean to interrupt you fellas so I’ll just be off now,” Harry mutters to the floor as she begins heading for the exit. A sharp command from Mycroft compells Sherlock to stop her, and for some reason he does it without a second thought. He grabs her arm and doesn’t budge when she attempts to shirk him off, and even though he’s as confused as everyone else seems to be, he’s slowly coming round to the realisation that Mycroft may _truly_ have had no idea that she would be here.  
  
“You had better explain yourself and quickly, Miss,” Mycroft levels a poisonous stare at her, “Because the alternative, which I am generously _not_ considering for this brief window of time, will be to have you stripped and interrogated in a cell.”  
  
John looks dismayed at this. “Bloody hell, hang on a minute!” He glances between Sherlock and Mycroft. “Everyone keep your knickers on! That won’t be needed. Right, Harry? I think she’s just…” His eyes implore her not to make it any worse. “You’re drunk, aren’t you? Look, it’s alright, I’m not angry—”  
  
“Oh, give me a bloody break, John,” she snaps. “I’m not so shitfaced I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Whatever she could have said in her defence, this particular admittance does nothing to help her. She casts her eyes down, running her fingers through her hair in frustration.  
  
“…I needed the money, alright?”  
  
Any of them could have said it; probably all of them did. “Money?”  
  
She shakes her arm again, but Sherlock’s grip is firm. She sneers at him hatefully. “You’re the reason my brother’s been through all this shit!” Then she turns to John, and her expression melts into something much softer. “I didn’t know what they were doing, not at first. They offered to pay me if I showed you that newspaper article of him. You remember the one? ‘Just nudge him in the right direction,’ they said, and they paid me just like they said, and I thought that would be it. And when you disappeared I thought… And I felt _so_ guilty, but… But… Then you showed me that fancy card, and I thought maybe I could get a bonus…”

Mycroft closes his eyes, rubbing his fingers across the bridge of his nose. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath. Anthea, still at his side, actually glances up from her Blackberry for a moment to give him a concerned look.  
  
Harry's eyes well up with tears and John’s face settles into something between shock and numbness, and Sherlock can see him trying to reconcile this with what he remembers of her, all the time she spent with him, comforting him— lying to him. And then he looks hurt; more hurt than Sherlock has ever wanted to see on that face, and suddenly he can guess as to the reason John said he had issues with trust.  
  
“You… manipulated me,” his voice incredulous. “Even knowing I was being kidnapped, starved. You helped them… _for money??”_  
  
She huffs, pointing a wild finger at Mycroft. “Blame that one! They’ve been trying to catch him in his lies for years and this was the only way they could do it!"

Sherlock is starting to lose the edge of his thoughts as the sedatives kick in. He's missing something, some connection, but he isn't grasping it. "They, they. Everybody keeps saying 'they.' Who are you talking about, if not him?"

"His bosses," John responds tightly, his eyes still fixed on Harry's guilty face. "The ones who ordered us both into the program. Mycroft had nothing to do with it— he's been trying to protect us."

 _"Protect_ us?" He shoots a disbelieving look at his brother.

"They promised you wouldn't be hurt, and here you are, yeah? So it's fine! Everyone's safe, everyone's got what they wanted, so just _let me go_ and that'll be the end of it. Please, John.”  
  
Mycroft's hands fall away from his troubled face and slip into his pockets. "Sherlock— take her phone, if you would?” It's an oddly polite request to hear in that voice, but Sherlock doesn't argue it.

When he reaches for Harry’s handbag, she shoves him away, hard, and he loses his balance, stumbling back but managing to stay on his feet. John moves to approach her but there's a rustling of her bag and he halts mid-step. When Sherlock looks up, taking a second longer to focus his eyes, he sees why.  
  
John's heavy Sig is rattling in her hand, pointed directly at him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Two months ago**

 

“Sherlock! Sherl— _mmf!”_

A cold hand slaps over his mouth, muffling the shouts as John is seized from behind.

He’d been tricked. Sherlock had disappeared back into the buried structure ages ago, and having heard nothing so much as a cough echo back up in over twenty minutes, John had been seriously considering climbing down the rock shaft and going after him. That’s when he was jumped. He had been so preoccupied that he didn’t hear anyone entering the cavern. Now they have him, and though he claws at the arms across his chest and over his face, he simply doesn’t have the strength to fight them off.

Gruff arms hold him firm as something is pressed into the metal clasp behind his head. A stiff click, and the pressure falls away with the mask. Cool air chills the sweat of his stifled forehead and eyes. His temples, unhealed from being constantly chafed against the hard edges of the mask, still weeps from when he’d been shocked almost to death weeks ago.

He enjoys the minor relief for all of about five seconds as, answering to furtive orders through their earpieces, his assailants set to work stripping him bare without so much as a _"How do you do",_ pulling the ruined vest over his head and yanking his underwear down to his dirty feet.

He’s too angry to be embarrassed about his sudden nudity, and when one of them is unhooking his filthy boxers from his foot John manages to kick him square in the face, sending him sprawling on the cavern floor. It’s cathartic enough to make him laugh aloud, but he’s quickly rewarded for this with a sharp pull on his arms; a vicious pain shoots through his bad shoulder, effectively subduing him. The bloke he’d kicked shoots him a dirty glare and disappears from his view, returning seconds later with an armful of fresh-smelling clothes.

John is more favourable to being dressed than _un_ dressed, and so he doesn’t struggle quite as much this time, only enough to communicate a general displeasure at being manhandled. They pull a plain white t-shirt over his head and slip his legs into a pair of thin drawstring trousers. His feet remain disappointingly bare.

As they turn him around to leave the cavern, John spots a man of his height and general appearance being dressed in _his_ discarded underwear, and _his_ uncomfortable (and remarkably glittery, now that he’s finally able to see it for himself) mask, and it suddenly clicks in his head what they must be doing.

“You’re not going to…? No, no! What the fuck is wrong with you people, why are you doing this?!”

He begins struggling again, and then the hand returns to press tightly over his mouth, preventing any further protests spilling out of it.

It’s only later, as he lies bound and prone in the back of a black helicopter, that he’s allowed to speak again. Someone climbs onboard with him and shoos away the guard, and then they’re lifting off from the tiny coastal island of _who-knows-where._ John suddenly finds he has an awful lot to say to the man sitting across the narrow aisle.

“You cruel, inhuman piece of shit!” he spits, straining his immobile arms. “Who was that, that you dressed up as me? You’re going to fucking kill him, aren’t you?!”

“Not _going_ to,” he corrects, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s already been done.”

John knocks his head against the dirty floor. “Why not me,” he laments, gritting his teeth. “Why don't you just finish me off? What did that poor sod deserve that I don’t?”

Mycroft leans back against the fuselage, knitting his fingers across his lap. “Nobody deserves this, Doctor Watson. But that is why I do what I do.”

“What, kidnapping? Murder?” John scoffs, blowing the grit away from his face.

This elicits a rueful chuckle from the man. There’s a pause before he slides off his seat, and onto his knees by John’s side. With obvious care for John’s aching shoulder, he lifts him to sit in a more comfortable upright position. John eyes him warily as he sits back down and brushes off his expensive-looking trousers.

“If it eases your mind, Doctor Watson, know that I’ve always made great efforts to source our _temporary participants_ not from the general populace, but from various high security prisons and mental institutions, both domestic and foreign. I try to select only those lost individuals possessing of neither family nor future, those who have fallen through the cracks of society. People whose contributions likely won’t be missed.”

_In other words, the helpless. Defenceless. Alone and afraid. People who can’t fight back._

“You’re sick.” It’s all John can say. Mycroft says nothing.

It’s hard to gauge the passage of time without a frame of reference, but John estimates it must have taken less than thirty minutes for the helicopter to touch down again. As the rotors spin down, the side door is slid open from the outside. Two people climb into the cramped compartment, carrying a large fabric bag with a zipper, like the sort corpses are towed away with. Over their shoulders, John spies a gurney sitting outside.

“You’ll have to forgive me this, Doctor, but it is rather imperative that you play the part convincingly.”

And before he can demand to know what they're doing to him now, a needle appears and sinks into his arm. After that, everything becomes vague, the world grows increasingly distant, until there’s nothing left.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, John is clean. Rested. He's been tended to by a host of medical staff. An IV catheter is re-hydrating him, and so far he’s been treated more like a VIP guest than a tortured captive.

Something tells him Sherlock won’t be faring quite so well, if his suspicions about what happened yesterday are true. Someone had been deliberately dressed up as him and killed, and John doubts they would have gone to all that trouble and not had their intended audience right there to see it happen. The thought makes his stomach lurch.

Sherlock must think him dead… if he’s still alive himself. But he must be. They wanted him to suffer a terrible heartbreak, to prove some kind of point or damage him somehow— John isn’t entirely sure how all this is supposed to work. But that’s how Sherlock had explained the HOUNDS test to him before: First they inflict a wound on the psyche, and then cut it away and cauterise it— _burn out_ the damaged area.

John had no idea such a thing was even possible. But then, Mycroft is living proof that it works.

It’s little comfort to be sure Sherlock is still alive having suffered such a wound. John doesn’t know how yet, but he has to get out of here. He has to find Sherlock, let him know he’s alive. He can’t bear the thought of him living with that terrible image of the person he must have thought was John dying in front of his eyes while he was helpless to stop it. For his sake — and that of the victim — John hopes it was quick.

As he lies in his bed considering what to do, the door unlocks.

“Oh bloody hell, not you again,” he mutters on seeing who enters the room. “What do you want.”

Mycroft casually hangs his umbrella on a coat hook by its wooden handle, and seats himself on a small plastic chair by the door. Without a word, he takes out his phone and makes a call. He ignores John, pressing the device to his ear, and still he doesn’t speak even to whomever must be talking on the line (John hears the faint mumbling of a voice through the speaker). He hangs up after a moment, the phone disappearing back into his pocket. Only then does he acknowledge John’s presence.

“Yesterday, you asked why someone else had to suffer the fate that was obviously intended for you. Do you still wish to know the answer to that question, Doctor Watson?”

He’s tempted to say no, purely out of spite for the man. He’s tempted to say many other things besides, none of them pleasant. But he does want to know. The poor sod they anonymously sacrificed in his stead deserves that much, at least. John wants to know what so many people have died for over the course of all this.

A slight nod of the head suffices; he doesn’t want to appear too eager.

“No doubt my brother has explained to you what little he knows about the HOUNDS project. What it is, what it does to people. That I was one of its first, shall we say, successful graduates, and that I have since risen to the position of Director, overseeing its general operation and recruitment.”

_He also told me about the promise you made to him, you rotten snake in the grass._

“What my brother doesn’t know — what almost nobody knows, and must not know, barring some very special and _highly_ trusted exceptions — is that in fact, I fooled the HOUNDS examiners into believing the procedure had been successful, when it had not. I emerged from my test rightly harrowed from the experience, but otherwise unscathed by it.”

John laughs towards the ceiling. “You’re not seriously expecting me to buy this.”

Mycroft smiles an ugly smile and splays his hands. “I’m not selling anything. This is the truth.”

“Oh, well that makes it all the better then, doesn’t it? You’re capable of sentiment, you just _choose_ to be an unfeeling, manipulative bastard who tortures and murders—”

“Doctor Watson… John,” he leans forward. “Please, listen to me, and understand.” Mycroft levels a gaze at him that John refuses to meet, so insulted is he by this blatant attempt at manipulation that if he dared meet his eyes now, he’s certain he would leap out of the bed and attack him. Mycroft continues his speech, regardless.

“Yes, I’ve done— I do terrible things, as a man in my position must. Things I am haunted by. And the only thing worse than this would be to allow someone else to sit in my chair, to decide on the fate of the lives that cross my desk every day. I’ve had to keep the secret of this almost all my life, even to my own family— I would give almost _anything_ to be able to walk away from it.”

“Then why the hell don’t you?”

His voice lowers almost to a whisper, but if anything it just makes him sound more intense. “Because if not for me, John, you would be dead. And Sherlock would be lost to his despair, and there would be a far greater number of HOUNDS graduates, proper ones, conscienceless people, holding positions of frightening power in the country, controlling us all with their hollow souls and their scorched hearts. People who would not give a _damn_ about weighing the price of one life against another, like I am forced to do.

“Make no mistake— I know that I am an evil man. I recognise it. I _live_ with it. Because if I did not do this, then more people would suffer. And I cannot in all good conscience allow that to happen. It is my cross to bear, and I bear it willingly.”

John does look at him now, if only to put an expression to the impassioned words. That had sounded _shockingly_ genuine. And though Sherlock has warned him emphatically of Mycroft’s masterful capabilities of deceit and deception, it’s difficult to imagine how someone with no real sentiment could look and sound as honestly upset as he does at his own admission.

“If any of that is true, then why did you let this happen? Why didn’t you just release us?”

“And what would I put on the report, hmm? That our subjects somehow escaped a magnetically time-locked environment and vanished, slipping past a network of cameras and proximity sensors and swam back to the mainland without a trace?”

John watches as the built-up tension gradually ebbs from Mycroft’s eyes, before he leans back in his chair, straightening his tie and composing himself, just like any normal person would have to after that kind of emotional outpouring. And John feels torn between whether to be impressed by such a flawless act, or to believe it and feel actual, real pity for him, something that until just now he would have considered laughable. That it’s even occurring to him is a shock in itself.

“So… What is the reason? You never really gave a proper answer.”

“The reason…?”

“To why you spared me,” John says, watching as the confusion appears and then disappears from the atypically animated face. “Surely not for my _irreplaceable_ value to society as a GP.”

“No indeed,” he says, and a thin smile appears. “I did it to keep a promise.”

 

* * *

 

John looks up, exasperated, from his book. “What do you mean, you’re ‘moving me’? Again? I’m not a piece of bloody furniture, Mycroft.”

“I understand your frustration, but I am afraid this is necessary. Your continued existence is a closely guarded secret, and it must unfortunately remain that way for as long as possible. Word has reached my ear of a certain amount of suspicion that I’m keen to avoid, and the longer you remain static, the more risk we incur of you being found. Thus, I am moving you to another location.” His eyebrows raise. _“Again.”_

John sighs in frustration, tossing the oft-interrupted book onto the coffee table. It has been an exhausting week. He’s healthier lately, already putting back on some of the weight that he’d lost during the HOUNDS ordeal, but he really doesn’t have the energy for all this travelling. So far, Mycroft has bounced him from Dartmoor to Exmoor, then across the country to Norwich, then back down south to Canterbury— skirting around London with almost every trip, but never quite crossing into its territory.

He misses the city. Currently he’s holed up in a small cottage on a private estate, and _God_ what he’d give for a delivery from Red Lantern. The food out here in these tiny villages is, in a word, _basic._ He harbours a small hope that wherever he ends up next will have a decent Chinese somewhere nearby.

“Fine, I’ll get ready,” he concedes, climbing to his feet with a groan. “How’s he coping, by the way? Any update?” he adds, never missing the opportunity to check up on Sherlock’s wellbeing; what he’s heard so far hasn’t been good.

There is barely time for Mycroft’s lips to turn up in a weak smile before it withers again. “Difficult to tell.” He turns to the window, peering down onto the quiet street through the thin cotton netting. “He hasn’t attacked anyone today, so far at least. I don’t know whether he’s growing numb to it, or just learning to better hide his fury. My sincerest hope is for the latter.”

“Can’t you do _something_ to help him?” John pleads, and not for the first time. But he’s worried, and can’t help it. He knows what they’re doing to Sherlock and he can barely stand to think about it.

He already knows that Mycroft can’t extricate Sherlock from where he’s being ‘treated’ without raising the alarm. Sherlock is under close and constant guard, not only by Mycroft’s personnel but by other sections of MI5 as well; hostile eyes and ears that answer only to other masters, who would be all too eager to report the discovery of a rogue operative in their midst.

Though he visits every day, Mycroft cannot so much as reassure his brother that the pain will come to an end. He can’t order his restraints to be loosened, or for the mandatory ‘therapy’ sessions — described to John in a way that sounded far closer to _brainwashing_ than therapy — to cease trying to warp Sherlock’s sick, sedated mind. He can only encourage it, watching his brother’s face grow more placid and lifeless with each passing day.

And now, John knows that the older Holmes isn’t the unfeeling monster the world believes him to be, and he can’t imagine how painful it is, watching his little brother suffering such abuse. His mind tries of course, experimentally, placing himself over Harry’s bedside as she struggles and screams at him. The imagery causes him to break into a cold sweat.

He rubs his brow in agitation. “There must be some way to let him know,” he bargains. “Why can’t we find a way to let him know I’m alive, and then maybe…?”

“I’m sorry. It simply cannot be risked.” Mycroft turns away from the window to meet his eyes. “I know how difficult this is. For both of you. Sherlock… He misses you terribly. I can read it in him as plain as the words in a book. If he were to become aware of the deception, his behaviour would be markedly different. People would notice it, and that would threaten the entire plan.”

He pats John on the shoulder reassuringly. “I am doing all I can for my brother. But we cannot make the next move until the time is appropriate. After his recovery, assuming he continues to play along as I suspect he is doing, he’ll be trusted to leave the country on assignment. At that time I will get both of you out at the first available opportunity. Then you must lay low for a while. For now, Sherlock must survive this part under his own strength. Have faith in him, John; my little brother is more resilient than he looks.”

The smile returns, and this time it seems easier, holds there for longer, and John finds himself cautiously returning it.


	25. Chapter 25

“Back off, John. I’m not messing around. Just stay the fuck back!”

Harry’s finger twitches threateningly over the trigger. Beside her, a stunned-looking Sherlock is frozen in place, staring past the muzzle pointed directly at his head.

John raises his hands in surrender. “Alright alright, let’s just… There’s no need for this, Harry. We can talk about it, yeah?” He squints at her. “Hang on. Is that my gun?”  
  
She scoffs at him. “How many guns do you think I have lying around my house?”  
  
“You _did_ have a gun lying around in your house,” he retorts. “ _My_ bloody gun! You told me it was stolen? You had a break-in?” Her lips quiver, forehead creasing; it was a lie, then. “So you just hid it from me? Why?”  
  
“I was going to sell it.”  
  
“How bloody poor _are_ you?!” he yells, almost at a shriek. “You’ve got a house, a job, what more—”  
  
“I haven’t been employed in two years!” she cries over him, the muscles in her arm tensing. John takes a cautious step back to placate her. He’d gotten a replacement since then, of course; A USP, semi-automatic pistol. Gifted to him several weeks ago by Anthea, most likely at the behest of Mycroft. John appreciated the gesture; he much prefers the ability to pretect himself under most circumstances. His new sidearm shifts in the back waistband of his trousers, out of sight. He prays he won’t have to use it here.  
  
“It’s alright for some,” Harry jeers, waving his old Sig carelessly. “Yeah, you had problems. But at least you had a job before all this. You had friends! I didn’t have anything but debt!”  
  
“So you sold me down the river to clear it? Even after you saw what they were doing— I nearly died of thirst on your kitchen floor, and the whole time, the whole _sodding_ time you were lying through your teeth.” He coughs out a sad laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “How could you do something like that to me?”  
  
Her face crumples, eyes welling with fresh tears. “When I found out, John, seriously— I felt so horrible about what they were doing. You have to believe me. That night, I… I nearly broke down and told you everything. I love you and I was worried, I _really_ was, but I couldn’t just walk away from that kind of money! Don’t you get it?” John’s hands fall to his sides. “Look, they promised me you would be okay! I would’ve turned it down if they didn’t!”  
  
“And so I am, yeah. But you know what? If it wasn’t for _him,”_ he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “I’d be dead. And those fuckers are the ones who would’ve made sure of it. So thanks, Harry. _Thank you._ You’ve been a real help.”  
  
Harry’s tears spill over, smudging her mascara and painting grey lines down her cheeks. John steals a glance at Sherlock. He isn’t shaking on the verge of a panic attack anymore, but he looks increasingly unsteady on his feet, as if the ground is moving under him and it’s all he can do to counterbalance himself against it. Those pills he took— John has no idea what they were, but he saw how carelessly Sherlock took them, not accounting for dosage at all. He doubts they have much time to resolve this before he passes out, or worse.  
  
Fortunately in that regard, Harry decides she’s been waylaid long enough. She moves over to grab Sherlock’s sleeve from behind, still aiming the gun at him.  
  
“Fine, if you want to do it like this. Get moving you,” she orders, shoving the weapon into his back. Sherlock blinks slowly and shuffles forward a step. This is getting out of hand— John has to think quickly.  
  
“Sherlock. You remember that story? The Fox and the Cat? Well, for once in your life, love: _don’t_ be the bloody Fox this time.”  
  
The real message there being _don’t think; just act._ He hopes to God that Sherlock is still prescient enough to follow his meaning.  
  
“Shut up, John,” Harry warns. “And back off, stay away from us. I know what you're like. Don’t try anything.”  
  
Sherlock gives no indication that he understood the message. John does as he’s told, and he sees Mycroft and Anthea moving themselves away from the door, clearing a path for her. Visibly satisfied by this, Harry urges Sherlock forward again.  
  
They cross the room, and John waits until they’ve passed by and Harry’s back is facing him. He has only one chance at this. Calmly, hoping to give Sherlock enough time to process it, he utters the words:  
  
“Vatican Cameos.”  
  
To anyone else, and hopefully especially to Harry, it may sound like nonsense. But the odd phrase is a warning; a clandestine signal that Mycroft assured him his brother would understand when he heard it. And it takes Sherlock a worryingly long three seconds to react. But when he does, he drops to the floor fast and without warning, hands covering his head. And John has already pulled the pistol from his waistband and aimed it at his sister, and before she can react to the loss of her human shield, he fires.  
  
The bullet strikes her in her right calf— an intentional placement to incapacitate, but not kill. She cries out in surprise and pain, her own gun discharging once, wildly, as she topples to the floor. There's a moment where he thinks that went as well as could be expected.  
  
And then Mycroft, too, falls prone. Anthea gasps, clutching his arm as he goes down.  
  
The sound of gunfire draws attention from outside, his agents bursting into the room with weapons drawn. And when they see their employer lying wounded on the ground, and Harry still gripping John’s Sig as she struggles to stand, they level their aim at her. In a rush of adrenaline, John shouts for them to _"Hold your—!"_  
  
Two shots ring out. Harry flops to the ground and goes still.  
  
 _No…!_  
  
His mind is wiped blank with shock. Somewhere nearby, someone is groaning in pain, but it’s not her. There are urgent voices, and movement, and he can’t understand anything, can barely hear them over the buzzing in his ears.  
  
His sister is dead.  
  
Nearby, Sherlock clumsily rises to his knees and crawls around to face her. He seems to reach out for a pulse, but then his eyes settle on the bullet hole in her head, and his hand returns uselessly to himself. He gives John a condoling look.  
  
Someone is touching John now, patting him down. Checking him for injuries, maybe. They prise the forgotten gun out of his hand. He doesn’t know how long he stands there numbly.  
  
Eventually his mind starts to come back online, and he hears someone calling his name. It’s Mycroft. He sees now that the stray shot from the Sig caught him in the stomach; blood soaks through his suit jacket, torn open now with Anthea’s hands pressed firmly into the bleeding wound.

“John—” he seethes, his features scrunched in obvious agony. “Hurry. Get… Get Sherlock on the plane. You have to go. _Now.”_  
  
John crouches beside him, looking him over. “What about you?” he asks, his voice sounding hollow in his own ears.  
  
“I will be fine. Please… Follow the plan. Get him out.”  
  
But he’s losing an alarming amount of blood; it seems dubious that he’ll ‘be fine’ at all, but John thinks better of spending what might very well be Mycroft’s final moments on Earth arguing against the man’s dying wishes. In his periphery, John can hear someone calling for a medical unit. He can only hope that it arrives on time to save him.  
  
“Johhnn?”  
  
This time it can only be Sherlock; his speech is slurred, on the verge of being incomprehensible. John leaves the older Holmes, touching Anthea’s arm to silently wish them good luck. It’s time for them to go, before Sherlock has to be carried out over his shoulder. But John can’t leave yet— not without saying goodbye to his sister.  
  
He kneels by her body, delicately lifting her hand to his lips. He closes his eyes and presses it with a kiss. Her fingers are already turning cold.  
  
 _I wish you could have just told me you were struggling… I would have been there for you, kiddo. I know you didn’t want to hurt anybody. I forgive you; this wasn’t your fault._  
  
 _God bless, Harry. I love you._

 

* * *

  
  
It’s freezing outside. The tarmac is icy and it takes them almost ten minutes just to reach the plane; John has to practically drag Sherlock every step of the way.  
  
He tries not to let his mind race through the evening’s morbid events, but Sherlock seems unable to move his heavily drugged brain past it. He seems stuck there, back in the conference room. Reliving it over and over, mumbling repeatedly about Harry— asking if John is okay, if he was shot, or if anyone was shot at all, or did he just dream it? Where are we, John? Wasn’t Mycroft here a moment ago? Harry, John. Harry is dead.  
  
“I know. I know she is,” he repeats close to his friend’s ear. “Thank Christ you’re not, too.” Sherlock stumbles over his own feet, nearly falling out of John’s grip. John pulls him up, clenching his jaw. “Come on, keep moving. Nearly there now.”  
  
Sirens wail in the distance as the pair finally reach the craft, its door already folded out into a set of airstairs leading up to the body of the plane. John is preparing to haul Sherlock up into it when he hears heeled footsteps clacking towards them— It’s Anthea, her hands still covered in blood. John fears the worst.  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
She swallows heavily, catching her breath. “They’re taking him to a hospital. I think he’s going to be alright,” she says, glancing around the site. “He wanted me to go with you.”  
  
“Why?” John asks, puzzled. “Aren’t you his PA?”  
  
“Yes, but he doesn’t think it will be safe for me here anymore. Nor for him, for that matter, but there’s not much we can do about it now. Once word of this reaches Headquarters, our lives will be forfeit whether he survives this or not.”  
  
“Shit…” John furrows his brow. “Well, you’d better get onboard then. Think you could help me get this one up the stairs?”  
  
“I’ll help you with him,” she says, hooking Sherlock’s free arm over her shoulders, “but I’m not leaving. I can’t.” John looks over at her in surprise. She smiles, almost demure. “You’re not the first people he’s saved from HOUNDS, you know.”  
  
“No, I suppose we’re not…”  
  
Getting Sherlock up the stairs isn’t easy, even with an extra pair of hands. But they make it, and once inside John reclines one of the seats, laying him carefully along it. He’s truly out of it now, barely responsive to anything external. Still breathing though, which eases John’s worry just a bit. He gently peels back one eyelid to check the pupil response, and it barely shrinks at all with the cabin’s light.  
  
“Will he be okay?” Anthea asks, her fingers worrying at each other as if they don’t quite know what to do with themselves without a phone under their pads. Truthfully, John doesn’t know. He wishes he could just send the man off to hospital with his brother, but that wouldn’t end well for anyone. Mycroft may have just sacrificed his life to get them out of here— they can’t turn back now.  
  
But he has nothing to treat him with; his packed duffel bag is stored in one of the overhead compartments, but it only contains what few clothes, toiletries and minor possessions he had left at Harry’s house while he’d been staying there. Sherlock will just have to ride out the effects, and hopefully not choke on his own vomit in the meantime.  
  
Turning to Anthea, John errs on the side of comfort rather than brutal honesty. “I wouldn’t worry. He’s more resilient than he looks.”  
  
She doesn’t get the reference, but Mycroft will when she tells him.  
  
“Before I go, John. Take this,” she says, and hands him back his gun; his original gun, the Sig. She also presses a phone into his hand. For a brief moment he’s confused, thinking she’s handing him her own Blackberry, but then he recognises it; this is Harry’s phone. “Best you keep hold of this, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
He nods gratefully, unable to find the words.  
  
After bidding him farewell, Anthea disembarks. As John makes preparations for their departure, the pilot makes a brief appearance in the cabin to update him on their flight plan.  
  
They’ll be leaving England— leaving Europe, leaving the entire _northern hemisphere,_ touching down a full 24 hours later in New Zealand, of all places. John has an old friend who lives there, but Mycroft had instructed under no uncertain terms that he is not to make contact with anyone who might know him. Once they arrive, they are to follow a set of hand-written directions to their accommodation and not dally on the way.  
  
John has also been given a set of burner phones for himself and Sherlock to use — anonymous, temporary mobile phones that can’t be traced back to them. They'll have to make completely new identities for themselves. And none of the details of their plan, nor even their real names, are to be mentioned openly, through the airwaves or online.  
  
As escape plans go, it feels pretty airtight. But what does he know? Up until recently, the extent of his spy knowledge had been whatever conspiratorial nuggets he’d gleaned from watching Bond movies, and half of that was probably bollocks to real life.  
  
The airstairs are raised and the door shuts firm, sealing the cabin’s pressure. John buckles himself and Sherlock into their chairs, laying a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He can't help but feel more like they're giving up, fleeing the battlefield, but he knows this is merely a tactical retreat. They will regroup; this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Minutes later, they take to the sky.

 

* * *

  
  
Over the next sixteen hours, John has time to ruminate over what happened. Sherlock is unconscious, but stable, so John can afford the distraction, and it’s important to get himself through the process. He has never been very good at dealing with this sort of thing— losing people. Losing _family._ He has a tendency to push difficult emotions to the back of his mind and let them fester there. So instead he focuses on it, lets it wash over him freely.

Harry… He’d shot her. It was only meant to diffuse the situation. But it ended up sparking a chain of events that lead to her death, and he can’t help but agonise over the decision he’d made. In a very real sense, her death had been _his_ fault. It seemed like the quickest solution at the time, but maybe quickest wasn't the right answer. He couldn’t just let her leave; she was threatening Sherlock’s life. Almost took Mycroft’s, too, though that part of it had technically been his fault as well.

He’ll mourn the loss of his sister for the rest of his life. But right now, it’s enough just to try and accept what happened, and his part in it. He tells himself there’s nothing he could have done, nothing he could have said to save her— and he hates admitting that. He hates that he wasn’t able to protect her. But she’d put herself in that position, hadn’t she?  
  
And if Sherlock had been hurt, that would be all down to her. One slip of her finger, that’s all it would have taken. One little mistake, and John would have lost _two_ people he loved today.  
  
Maybe there might have been some other way to handle it, he doesn’t know. He can’t think about it too closely, or it could drive him mad with guilt. In the end, he had just acted. He’s the Cat, after all. The thought makes him scoff derisively at himself; he’s always hated cats.  
  
Foxes, on the other hand…   
  
He glances over at Sherlock. Still breathing, tucked under a thin blanket that John had dug out of his luggage earlier when he began shivering in his sleep. As if sensing John’s scrutiny, Sherlock stirs. His face screws into a pained frown before he pulls open his eyes. They stare ahead of him for a moment, adrift, finding nothing but the side of a chair to focus on.  
  
But then they flit up past the armrest, discovering John there. Recognition dawns; his face visibly softens. “John…?”  
  
John smiles down at him, feeling a rush of affection. “Wotcha, you mad sod. How’re you feeling?”  
  
“You’re not dead,” he murmurs, as if he doesn’t believe it.  
  
His voice sounds more regular now, less slurred, albeit roughened by sleep. But is he really still stuck in that conference room? John had hoped he was past that by now. “It’s alright, Sherlock. We’re safe now, both of us.”  
  
Sherlock turns his head slightly to accommodate his wandering eyes. His eyes narrow in confusion. “Why are we on a plane?”  
  
“It’s our _great escape,”_ he explains. “They told you they were sending you off on a mission, didn’t they? Well, Mycroft used it as a cover to get you— get _us_ out of danger.” He rests back in his chair, watching as Sherlock lifts onto his elbows to better look back at him. His eyes are droopy, pupils still a little too wide, his movements still a little too slow, but by and large the sedatives appear to be working their way out of his system.  
  
“Is he here? On the plane, with us?” John shakes his head softly, and Sherlock wriggles himself upright. “But they’ll know now,” he says. “The photos, John. She took photos of you and Mycroft— they’ll know what he did.”  
  
John pats his jacket pocket. “Got that covered.”  
  
Sherlock exhales. “Good. That helps, although…”  
  
“Hey—” John interrupts him. “Mr Fox, stop thinking for a while. I’m sure he’ll be fine, him and Anthea both. There’s nothing more we can do for now but wait and see.”  
  
But he doesn’t honestly know that. As soon as they left British airspace, all contact was cut with the plane. Information will reach them in New Zealand, somehow; a message slipped under the door, perhaps, or words whispered behind them by a stranger in a coffee shop. Codes hidden in the obituaries that only Sherlock would be able to decipher.  
  
At least, that’s what John imagines. But for now all he can offer is empty promises. And Sherlock, being who he is, can see through them instantly. "Do you know who was behind all this?"

John gives a half-shrug. "Mycroft told me a name, not much else. Apparently that whole section of the government is under the thumb of a pair called the Moriarty brothers. Sounds like a couple of mobsters to me; mean anything to you?"

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "Never heard of them. But if they have Mycroft in their pockets, they must be quite powerful indeed." A slight pout appears on his lips then, and he reaches down to the seat controls and raises the back, stretching his stiff limbs and casting a glare at John. “You couldn’t have put me in a less comfortable position if you’d tried.”  
  
John huffs. “Sorry. Did my best there. But you did decide to chug half a prescription of…” He digs the confiscated bottle out of his jacket pocket and reads the label. _“…Ketamine?_ Bloody Norah. You’re not addicted to these, are you?”  
  
Sherlock looks away. “They calm my nerves. I start feeling anxious after a while, I get… panicky. I can’t sleep without them.”  
  
“That would be a _yes,_ then.” John purses his lips. Well, it could be worse, he supposes. He lays a reassuring hand over Sherlock’s and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. You’ve overcome this sort of thing before, I know you can do it again. We’ll deal with it together, alright?”  
  
Sherlock’s brilliant eyes gaze at him with something akin to awe. “Together…?” he repeats, sounding doubtful. “I’m a high priority target for them now, John. They will hunt me down. Technically we’re both traitors to the country; as long as you’re with me, you’re putting yourself in danger. As soon as we touch down you can disappear; they won’t find you if you’re smart about it.”  
  
He looks down at John’s hand. After some hesitation, he turns his own palm up, and their fingers slip between each other. “I’d understand. You’d be an idiot not to go.”  
  
“You’d leave me high and dry, jonesing on Special K?” John ribs him, trying to keep it lighthearted.  
  
“I’d leave _me,”_ Sherlock corrects. “I wouldn’t leave you. Not unless you asked me to.” He looks down at their joined hands, tilting his head to the side. “But the bond we developed might never have happened, if not for HOUNDS. Now that it’s over, why would you still want anything to do with me?”  
  
John studies his crestfallen face. “What do you feel? About me. Us. Whatever.”  
  
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Distant. I’ve… never made a connection with someone like this before. Perhaps that’s why they thought it would be the best way to break me. We’re desensitised to traumatic events the more we experience them. I’d never felt that kind of pain before, so it was… very effective. I had to lock everything away, or it would have overwhelmed me. Until a few hours ago, it didn’t matter. You were dead; there was no point in _feeling_ anything. And now… it's difficult. I don't know if I can access it anymore.”  
  
John's heart sinks with those words. “Maybe there is a way to find out,” he suggests, a hopeful idea springing to mind. Trusting his instincts, he leans forward. Just an inch or two, enough to bring their faces closer together. “These things usually start with a kiss, don’t they? We sort of skipped over that part. Maybe, if we start from the beginning…?”  
  
And then slowly, ever-so-slowly, John closes the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Minor character death.


	26. Chapter 26

John watches Sherlock’s expression, his heart fluttering, his stomach knotted with nervousness. Everything culminates for him in this moment.  
  
In the days and weeks since escaping HOUNDS, John had spent much of his time wondering if his feelings were real or just illusory. HOUNDS had been like one long fever dream; full of corpses and masks, sex and suffering. Occasionally the fever would break, and he would wake up sweaty and starving, feeling like he had the worst hangover of his life. But those periods of wakefulness never stayed for long before the fever would drag him back underground.  
  
But it also delivered him back into Sherlock’s orbit. And everything had been heightened inside that place, the very air they breathed laced with chemical stimulants, making lust override reason. If Sherlock had been anybody else, would John still feel this way about them? If not, then what was it about this man that drew him in so strongly? It had terrified John to think what it would mean if the next time he laid eyes on Sherlock, he felt nothing but bitter regret and repulsion. And wouldn’t that make sense? Weren’t they wilfully manipulated to become intimate, forced together like a pair of endangered animals being encouraged to breed?

Except there would be no fruitfulness between them— and thank Christ for that. Mycroft knew fully well Sherlock’s orientation, that he would rather take a John than a Jane, and that sufficed for what they wanted to achieve in him.  
  
And as it turns out, John’s selection had been Mycroft’s doing. The man was in charge of recruitment, even if the decision to enter Sherlock into HOUNDS had been forced upon him from people superior even to his privileged station. At some point in time, Mycroft had zeroed in on John’s life, determined he would be a perfect ‘mate’ for the exotic specimen. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about that. Weirded out, certainly. And God knows how Mycroft felt, having to examine and orchestrate his little brother’s interests in such stark detail.  
  
But maybe he should be thankful. Because when he was ushered into that room at the airport and laid his eyes on Sherlock once again, standing there in all his tall, dark-curled beauty and looking so diminished, so vulnerable— John knew in that instant that what he felt for him had to have come from somewhere deep within himself.  
  
His feelings hadn’t faded away with the drugs; if anything, they had only grown stronger over time. And his love didn’t turn to hate once their freedom had been won.   
  
He’s sure of it: he wants this. Wants _him._  
  
The only question left is whether Sherlock has arrived at the same conclusion. As he’d waited and waited for Mycroft to bring word that they could move on with their plan, John grew increasingly worried that what they were doing to Sherlock in the meantime would destroy his ability to feel anything at all. And from his words, it sounds likely that they may have succeeded in that.  
  
But as John watches him now, all the signs are there— whether Sherlock himself realises it or not. His body language is blatant; anticipation and curiosity are written all over his features. His eyes flick down to John’s lips, and back up to his eyes, and his pupils are wider on the return. The remnant effects of the sedatives, coupled with a growing arousal, crowd out the complex galaxy of his irises, and his bowed lips part, allowing his tongue to subconsciously slide out and wet them, making them glisten invitingly. His broad chest rises and falls, every breath growing heavier as John closes their proximity.   
  
And when John gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s soft, delicate mouth, those brilliant eyes flutter closed. The simple touch sends John’s senses aflame, and he breathes in deeply, taking in the smell of Sherlock’s clean skin against his own, that longed-for scent that had become so familiar and missed so much. Sherlock does the same, holding it there for a moment, and when he releases it a small, helpless whimper emerges unbidden from his pale throat. John’s body and heart respond powerfully to the sound, a shiver passing through him, making his every nerve-ending tingle in delight.  
  
His own eyes fall shut as their lips begin moving together in a slow, wet glide. There’s no coercion, no manipulation acting on them now— the warm glow building inside John’s heart is something entirely pure.  
  
And this time, Sherlock doesn’t pull away from him. He presses in. Tentatively at first, but it soon gathers energy. And when the tip of his tongue touches encouragingly along John’s lower lip, John allows it to curl hungrily into his mouth.  
  
The fleeting memory of Sherlock’s taste had been etched into his mind ever since that cold night. And though he detects a slight bitterness there now, it is no less intoxicating than he remembers. Their tongues slide together slowly, exploring. Tasting each other. And though kissing is really the _least_ of all the acts they’ve done together at this point, somehow it feels like the most intimate moment they’ve ever shared. Everything else had been a mad, lust-driven frenzy, but this? This is _loving._  
  
Sherlock’s hand comes up to caress John’s face, and John raises his own hand to spread his fingers through Sherlock’s silken hair. The added contact makes him sigh pleasurably into John’s mouth. Any lingering doubts in Sherlock’s mind seem to have been left behind with their words, as he leans further over the disruptive barrier of the armrest in his quest to mount an invasion of John’s space. And if that’s what he wants, then John is more than happy to be conquered.  
  
 _I think we have an answer,_ John muses, smiling into their pressed lips.  
  
 Sherlock breaks away, planting a line of soft kisses along John’s mouth, then moving further back along his jaw, and the sudden enthusiasm is unexpected and amusing to John.  
  
“This may be a bit presumptuous,” John grins, chasing Sherlock’s wandering mouth in an attempt to refocus his attentions. “But is it safe to say you’re as into this as I am?”  
  
Sherlock’s reply comes in the form of a pair of warm lips caressing beneath his ear, a hand snaking around to his nape. Long fingers stroking along the vertebrae of his neck. Then hot breath, and wet tongue, and a scraping of teeth against John's skin that draws out a shuddering groan. The pleasure causes a rush of blood to gather and swell between John's legs.  
  
“Christ… Sherlock, easy. I think that’s good enough,” he pants, urging back on Sherlock’s shoulders. This isn’t exactly what he had in mind. Not that he isn’t enjoying it— more that he’s enjoying it a little _too_ much. This was supposed to be about figuring out Sherlock’s emotional state, not John joining the Mile High Club.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock asks innocently, returning to lick into his mouth again, stealing his breath away. A few seconds of languid snogging later, John manages to break the kiss. Sherlock stares darkly into his eyes.  
  
“Because…” John squirms, slightly embarrassed by just how quickly and _fully_ hard he’s become. “You may be a bit disconnected from all this, but after that display I’m very, um… connected.”  
  
Sherlock narrows his eyes. Then a devious smile creeps onto his face. He reaches down, finding the solid mass pressing tight against John’s thigh. He closes his fingers around it, squeezing him through the fabric of his jeans, eliciting a quiet moan from John. His voice sinks low. “I may be a little slow at the moment, John, but I’m not _oblivious.”_  
  
“Okay, I suppose that much is obvious, but… Oh, Christ…” John gasps, swallowing heavily as Sherlock nuzzles back down into the crook of his neck and continues to paw at his erection. He’s fast losing the ability to think. “But more importantly, what is it doing to _you?”_  
  
He reaches down to feel him, but Sherlock pulls his hand away, pinning it back on the cushion of the chair. “Don’t,” he says abruptly. “Please.”  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“I need to see you,” he whispers urgently, kissing back towards his face. “I need to hear you…”  
  
John clears his throat. “Sherlock, love, it’s alright if you don’t—”  
  
“I do though,” he insists. “Please, just let me…”  
  
But John can tell there’s something wrong. And when he stops reciprocating, Sherlock reluctantly eases back, frustration shimmering in his eyes.

“We don’t have to rush this,” John says, stroking a stray curl of hair away from Sherlock’s face. “One step at a time, eh? I don’t have any expectations. Besides,” he smiles, gazing into those fierce, frustrated eyes, “we’ve only just had our first kiss.”  
  
Sherlock bites his lip, and John can see the argument brimming just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over into words. But eventually his mouth relaxes in defeat. He lowers back into his seat, and John takes his hand again; they could both do with a little comforting.  
  
The temptation is strong to take a peek and see for himself, but he doesn’t, out of respect for Sherlock’s privacy. This must be difficult for him. And it scares John a little, to think that the treatment inflicted upon him by HOUNDS may have been able to cause some permanent damage after all. He clearly wants to go further, but John isn’t sure he’s ready to make that decision, and he isn’t about to let him do something he might regret later on. If Sherlock didn’t, or _couldn’t_ feel that way for him anymore, then John would rather he not try to force it; that wouldn’t be fair on either of them.  
  
Well, they’ll deal with it. Together. This won’t change anything for him; no matter what, John is committed. He’ll do anything it takes to help Sherlock through this.  
  
Things quickly cool down after that. They avoid the subject for the remainder of the flight, talking instead about their plans for when they land in New Zealand, and John amuses himself by coming up with silly fake names for them both: Dick and Perry, Frank and Jesse, Butch and Kid (John insists Sherlock be Kid). And Sherlock rolls his eyes at the ridiculous suggestions, but John thinks he can read a hint of amusement in them. Deep down, John is sure there’s still something genuinely warm and caring in Sherlock’s heart. It hadn’t been easy to get there, but he isn’t about to give up on it now. Not when they’re so close to unlocking something so special.  
  
As the plane makes its final approach, John notices Sherlock growing increasingly agitated. At first he assumes the distress is being caused by their earlier aborted intimacy, but then he notices the tremor, and it dawns on him that perhaps the issue isn’t a problem with his emotional state or responsiveness, as he had feared, but simply the neglect of his chemical dependency; Sherlock's nerves need calming.  
  
John still has his pills tucked away in his pocket. They’ll be landing in a few minutes, so he hands over a single capsule— just enough to soften his edges, too little to slow him overly much. He receives a glare for the insufficient dose, but otherwise Sherlock doesn’t complain.  
  
It’s mid-afternoon and the dawn of summer when they land at a private airfield some miles outside Rotorua, a city on the nation’s northern island. Having come straight from a frosty English winter, it’s a bit of a seasonal shock for John and Sherlock. Thankfully they were able to prepare for this, ditching their coats and scarves and changing into something a little cooler. But the summers here are fairly mild, and though Sherlock argues to keep his tailored suit, John reminds him that they need to avoid attention and they can’t rightly do that with him advertising his gorgeous figure to the world.  
  
“Gorgeous??” Sherlock says, looking thoroughly perplexed. _“Me?”_  
  
“Of course you, you silly git,” John grins, taking a moment to absorb the unconventional sight of Sherlock in a t-shirt, grey jeans and leather work boots, in lieu of his usual expensive Spencer Hart ensemble. John’s change of wardrobe is much less dramatic; he only really had to ditch the jumper. The remaining button-down shirt and jeans works well enough for him.  
  
As they disembark, there’s a moment of tension as John scans their surroundings, his senses on high alert in case of an ambush. But the airfield is empty. Only a single car sits parked nearby, its driver absent. It’s a rental; another one of Mycroft’s arrangements, part of the plan. John is relieved to find the keys hanging on the door handle.  
  
Having loaded their luggage into the boot, they drive along the main road south from the city, then head north-west, skirting around a large area of farmland and patches of forest. The countryside here is beautiful, with clear skies and rolling hills for miles. As they head towards the town that will be their new home for the foreseeable future, John is quiet, introspective. From the corner of his eye, he notices Sherlock studying him.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Hmm? Yeah. I’m alright. You?”  
  
Sherlock looks away. “I’m sorry about your sister. It was my fault she was there.”  
  
John glances over at him, at his troubled face, and sees that he’s being serious. “Don’t be silly. Why would it be your fault?”  
  
Sherlock’s fingers play anxiously with his seatbelt. “There was no reason to let her come along. I didn’t even believe her when she said you were alive. But I let her anyway, because…” He presses his lips, closing his eyes with a slight headshake. “I’m sorry, John.”  
  
John exhales, fixing his eyes back on the road. “No. Harry made her choices, just like I made mine. It was nobody’s fault, Sherlock. Especially not yours.” He pauses. “I am curious, though. How did Mycroft not know she was coming? She arrived with you, didn’t she?”  
  
Sherlock hums. “I wondered the same. It’s possible the car we got into wasn’t sent by Mycroft. Departments within the agency share resources and personnel all the time, so it wouldn’t have looked out of the ordinary. I was so worried that he was luring me into a trap, I never considered the possibility that the trap was being set for _him.”_  
  
“Yeah. I never would have guessed Harry was working against us. Didn’t think she was that good of a liar. Maybe I didn’t see it because I would never have expected it from her…”  
  
“You do tend to see the best in people.” It puts a smile on John’s face, despite his sadness.  
  
It takes them under an hour to reach Tokoroa, a fairly small town surrounded by farms and lakes. John brings Sherlock up to speed on what little he was briefed about the area. The locals call it ‘Tok Town’, and it used to have a fairly rough reputation stemming from a past rife with gang violence. However, in recent years the town has developed into a much more civilised community, though its nature as a cultural melting pot containing a mixture of New Zealand Europeans, Maori and Pacific Islanders makes it a lively enough place. And though they won’t have to worry about gangs running riot, there’s enough gambling and booze here to ensure there’ll be criminal cases aplenty to keep Sherlock occupied.  
  
Their new shared residence is a small cottage on the edge of town, quiet and privately situated. John pulls into the gravel drive and they get out to survey the building. It’s very pretty. White timber walls, a slim, iron roof. Lush green vines of ivy frame its dainty windows and encircle the glass-panelled front door. At the back of the property sits a wooden deck joined to the house, and John is delighted to find a modest vegetable garden waiting to be tended by someone with a green thumb.  
  
“Boring. All yours,” Sherlock tells him, scrunching his nose in distaste. Figures he’d have no interest in gardening. But John doesn’t mind— he can’t wait to start. Home-grown, home-cooked food is the best thing in the world, in his opinion.  
  
Sherlock turns away and goes through the back door of the cottage. John follows him inside.  
  
 _Well,_ almost _the best thing in the world,_ he amends with a secret smile.  
  
Inside, the cottage is well-furnished, with a modern kitchen joined to a homely, open-plan living area, where a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs sit facing each other in front of a brick fireplace. Above the mantel hangs a framed painting in classic Gothic style of two creatures — a fox and a cat, John realises — laying side-by-side together under the shade of a tree.  
  
“Is he serious?” John says, eyes widening in a mixture of horror and disbelief. “Don’t tell me he actually commissioned someone to paint that.”  
  
“My brother has a weird sense of humour.”  
  
“That’ll _definitely_ have to go,” John frowns.  
  
Sherlock is already heading off to explore the rest of the house. Down the hall, there’s a bathroom with a free-standing shower, and two bedrooms. But only one of them has any furnishings or a bed, and when John catches up to him, Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, staring quietly down at.  
  
“Ah…” John scratches his head. This is awkward. Bloody Mycroft; now he’s just being presumptuous. “Well, I don’t mind, if you don’t. But I’m happy to sleep on the couch, if—”  
  
Sherlock whirls around then, and John doesn’t get to finish the sentence as he’s pressed back against the wall. Sherlock crowds into him, soft lips against his, and their wet tongues are sliding together before his mind can catch up. Sherlock's hands stroke through his hair, across his chest, around his ribs and then lower, holding onto his hips and pulling their bodies together, causing John to gasp in surprise.  
  
And it’s something of a relief when he feels the hard length of Sherlock’s erection rubbing against his thigh, proof enough in his eyes that his earlier worrying had been at least partially unwarranted.  
  
“Oh, that’s a good sign…” he says between breaths, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and urging him closer. The taller man towers over him, claiming him, enveloping him with his body, as if trying to make contact with every inch of himself at once.  
  
“What is?” Sherlock asks, and it’s difficult to answer when their mouths want to stay locked together, the heat and taste of each other mingling, becoming indistinguishable, like two halves joining to become a single, complete entity.  
  
Too pleasantly occupied to respond, John manages to capture Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth, and he tugs on it gently. Sherlock responds with a moan, running his tongue along John’s teeth until he opens up again, and John lets it slip back inside, but now he has Sherlock’s tongue between his lips and he suckles it into his mouth. The moan is louder this time, and Sherlock’s hips jerk against him, their groins growing hotter and thicker together.  
  
 _Too easy,_ John smiles into their kiss. _This is going to be fun._  
  
“You,” John finally answers after releasing his prisoner. “I thought, maybe… on the plane, the reason you didn’t want me to touch you…”  
  
“Oh,” he says, easing back to look into John’s eyes. “No, that wasn’t it. It’s just…” He hesitates, his gaze roaming across John’s face.  
  
John slides his arms up to hang crossed over Sherlock’s shoulders, planting a soft kiss on the end of his nose. “It’s alright. You don’t have to explain.” But Sherlock shakes his head slightly.  
  
“I do. It’s important.” John holds him gently while he gathers his thoughts, rocking them slowly from side to side. “I need to know if this is real,” he finally manages, his brow creasing in worry. “I could just be responding to the memory of how I felt before. If that’s the case, then I’m no longer able to access those emotions. I would never be able to truly… love you, the way you deserve.”  
  
“Oh…” John says, and his gut twists with a sudden anxiety. “Then… how can we tell?”  
  
His long fingers play at the collar of John’s shirt. “There is something,” he begins quietly. “There’s something I wanted to do, but never really had the opportunity. Back then, it would have been a bit… unsanitary. So if I did it now, it would be an entirely new experience for me. Whatever I felt about it would be honest, not a memory. I think it’s best to get it out of the way sooner rather than later, so we know where we each stand.”  
  
John nods in agreement, and might have asked him what he had in mind, except those fingers are already running down the front of his shirt, over his belly, and down to the front of his jeans. And Sherlock stares longingly into his eyes as his hands dexterously work to unbuckle John’s belt, and then he sinks slowly to his knees.  
  
“Well, if that’s what it’ll take,” John swallows, watching in awe as Sherlock tugs his jeans down, followed by his boxers, and then stares dark-eyed and positively wanton at John’s erect cock, which stands proud and glistening in front of his face. “I’m sure I can handle the hardship.”


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock’s hand descends into the mess of dusky blond hair and closes around him. He watches in silent fascination how the hard flesh of John’s cock throbs beneath his fingers, long veins pulsing to the rhythm of John’s rising heartrate. He leans forward, bringing his face so close that John can feel his breath, but no closer. He’s in no hurry; he seems to want to take in every detail.

“Have you, umm… ever done this before?” John asks.

If it were anyone else studying him this closely, John would be feeling incredibly self-conscious right about now. But Sherlock appears reverent as his dark eyes drink in the sight of him.

“No,” he admits. “I’ve wanted to, though. I thought about it, when we were at the ballroom. But the mask…” He trails off, and when he presses his nose into the crease of John’s groin and breaths in the scent of him, John’s head falls back against the wall.

“Fuck…” he whispers. He hopes Sherlock starts touching him soon. This isn’t going to take long.

Sherlock’s face slides up towards his navel, dragging his tongue and teeth along John’s skin as he goes. John widens his stance a little, trapped as he is in the tangle of his lowered jeans, and tries for gentle encouragement. He lifts his hips away from the wall, but Sherlock presses him back, holding him there with his other hand, and John has no choice but to endure his slow, exploratory pace.

His cock leaks in anticipation. Finally Sherlock faces it directly, bringing his lips millimetres away. His warm breath ghosts over John’s skin, and he watches as beads of precum dribble down towards his hand. His tongue darts out to taste it, and then slides along the underside of John’s shaft, soaking up the salty taste. He chases it all the way up, towards the point of origin, and there his tongue presses flat, lapping one long, slow, heavy lick across the slit. He does it again when John moans and his cock twitches in pleasure, expelling more precum for him, which Sherlock laps up again. It forms a continuing cycle of slow-burning pleasure that leaves John gasping, aching for more.

Unable to keep his hands by his sides any longer, John rubs his fingertips through Sherlock’s curls, stroking and massaging him. He hums in appreciation. And when John finally feels Sherlock’s wet lips close around the head of his cock, his fingers grip tighter of their own accord.

Because _holy fuck,_ does that feel good.

The sucking is slow, gentle at first. His tongue continues to lather him in broad strokes for a while, before it begins to grow more adventurous, curling around underneath the corona of his glans to dance lazy circles around him. And when it happens to flick accidentally over the taut skin of his frenulum, the spike of pleasure there causes John’s hips to jerk, and Sherlock — of course — takes this as an invitation to explore the reaction in meticulous detail.

Sliding off him with a wet slurp, Sherlock presses his lips in an open-mouth kiss at the head, allowing his tongue to slide slowly over the sensitive area. He repeats the broad lapping that caused so much pleasurable response a few moments before, and that’s very good; John’s muscles tense and relax to the heat of his licking tongue. But when he tries instead making quick, light flicks across the area, John’s breath catches in his throat, and his knees shake, going weak and nearly giving out under him.

“Oh God, that’s good,” he breathes heavily, trying his best to keep his hands relaxed in Sherlock’s hair. Thank fuck Sherlock has him pinned right now; he doesn’t think he could stay on his feet like this without it.

Having found a more promising technique, Sherlock continues this for a while, playing with speed and pressure, cataloguing all the various noises and shudders and spasms he’s able to elicit with minor adjustments. And John grows increasingly vocal, unable to stop himself— Sherlock’s administrations are relentless, his curiosity insatiable. It doesn’t seem like he’ll stop until he learns absolutely everything there is to know about pleasuring him, and if he keeps this up, John thinks he may very well end up coming before the man has even truly gotten started.

But then finally Sherlock’s mouth takes him again, and he begins to sink down, enveloping inch after inch into the hot, tight space. His tongue presses against the underside of his cock, and John can feel himself sliding along the soft palate of his mouth. Sherlock moves as far down the length of him as he can, and John’s eyes flutter closed as the head of his cock presses into the back of his throat. Sherlock gags a little, swallowing around him, making his throat constrict, and John has to try very, very hard not to come right that instant.

Sherlock pulls back, slowly, all the way to the tip before sinking down again, and then back up. And John’s toes curl in pleasure when he feels that clever tongue repeatedly flicking at his frenulum whenever it can reach the spot. Sherlock is a very quick learner. And as the pace begins to pick up, John can’t hold back his voice anymore— Sherlock is sucking the desperate, choked moans out of him. John’s hips are trying to jerk forward, seeking to thrust into that hot mouth, but Sherlock holds him firm against the wall, maintaining full control over his slow-cresting pleasure.

The hand around the base of his cock slips lower to take hold of his balls, rolling them gently together while he continues to suck up and down the length of him. This gets more difficult as they begin drawing up towards his body, tightening as John feels himself approaching the edge. Sensing this, Sherlock slows down, testing his ability to keep John hovering on the precipice.

As it turns out, he’s _very_ good at it.

Many minutes of teasing, tortured edging follows, as Sherlock discovers and explores this new skill. Just like before, he experiments with it; bringing John incrementally closer and closer before he drops back, making John whine and sob in pleasurable frustration. Sherlock tests just how firm John’s muscles tighten, just how urgent the pitch of his moaning can climb, just how thick his cock will swell in his mouth as he brings John so very close to tipping — so _agonisingly_ close every time — and yet still keep him clinging on by the barest of threads.

And John is ready to start begging, pleading Sherlock to let him come. But then several long fingers press into the space behind his scrotum and begin massaging him there. And John has neither the time, nor anywhere near a sufficient amount of blood left in his brain to ask how the hell Sherlock knows such a clever little trick. That extra bit of stimulation was all he needed; he feels it begin rising out of him, but then Sherlock starts sucking him even harder and suddenly he’s coming with a loud cry, pulsing fast and heavy inside Sherlock’s mouth, over the back of his tongue. The orgasm trembles through his entire body, again and again, and Sherlock draws out and swallows down every fresh wave of his release, until his cock is twitching spent and dry between his lips.

Sherlock pulls off him as John begins to soften, resting his forehead against John’s stomach with his eyes shut, breathing heavily.

It seems they both need a moment to recover. That had been _incredible._ But John isn’t sure what to make of Sherlock’s quiet reaction. Is he upset? Oh, God— did he ruin this? John hadn’t had time to warn him. But then Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at him, his pupils blown wide, and this time it’s definitely not the sedatives. He rises up to his feet, and John holds him close as Sherlock’s arms circle around him in a tight hug, his face pressed into John’s shoulder.

“Alright?” John manages, still slightly breathless. “That was… amazing. _You’re_ amazing.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is muffled on John’s shirt. John hangs onto his shoulders, his muscles like jelly under his skin, tingling and weak. Sherlock lifts his head, and John draws him into a slow, tender kiss.

The remnant taste of himself in the other man’s mouth isn’t unexpected, given that Sherlock hadn’t allowed him to pull away. But he desperately wonders what Sherlock thought of the experience. He’d taken him, fully and without hesitation, presumably having never done anything like that before. And perhaps that was the point— he’d wanted to see if there was any boundary he couldn’t cross.

John understands now. There are things one simply can’t do unless their hearts and minds are fully committed to it. Such an act as this might have been intolerable otherwise. And while it seems he’d enjoyed it, he won’t get confirmation of his theory until Sherlock gets past the roadblock currently arresting his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” John asks, because Sherlock is being too quiet. He’s unreadable.

Sherlock sighs against John’s lips. “I…” They gaze into each other’s eyes, so much weighing on the words he will utter next. His verdict will be the difference between whether or not John will ever be as close as this to him again, and part of him selfishly wants the moment to stretch on infinitely. Just being here, holding him. Being held. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now.

“Will you come to bed with me, John?”

Except there.

“Yes. _God,_ yes.” John stoops to pull his jeans up so he can walk, but Sherlock stops him, placing a foot down squarely on the scrunched clothing wrapped around his ankles.

“You can leave those here,” he says, and an impish smile lifts the corners of his mouth. And they both giggle as John performs a rather undignified struggle out of one leg, then the other, the task made ten times more awkward by the presence of his shoes. Sherlock lets him hold onto his shoulders until he finally manages it, slipping his shoes off with the jeans. Then he guides John back towards the bed, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, and John reaches around to hook his hands under Sherlock’s t-shirt and lift it up over his head, revealing the smooth, pale skin underneath.

Their mouths find each other again, warmth shared between them as John divests Sherlock of the rest of his clothes. Sherlock reaches under John’s shirt, his hands moving up and over his shoulders, then smoothing down his arms, bringing the fabric with it. It tumbles to the floor. They stand together, fully naked now, their arms wrapped around each other again. Chest to chest, hip to hip; Sherlock’s untended erection sandwiched between them. Just the presence of it, hard and throbbing against John’s navel, waiting for him, wanting him, begins to spark a renewed interest in himself.

John manoeuvres him back until his legs meet the bed, and he topples back onto the mattress, dragging John with him. John lands on him with a grunt, and he laughs as Sherlock wriggles up to lie properly along the bed, John crawling over him to chase his smirking lips.

“You’re not getting away that easily, Mister,” he teases, planting quick kisses along the firm lines of his jaw.

“I could if I wanted to,” he cheekily replies, spreading his legs apart so that John can lay flat against him. He circles his hips, rubbing against John, seeking the friction and sighing pleasurably when John joins in, grinding against him. “John, I… I need…”

John hums questioningly, stroking Sherlock’s hair lazily through his fingers. He has an idea, but he wants to hear Sherlock say it. “Tell me. What do you need, Sherlock?”

John reaches down their bodies to stroke Sherlock’s cock, moving it slowly through his fist. Christ, he must have been leaking all the way through what he was doing to John just now; he’s positively soaked. His skin slides easily through John’s fist, and Sherlock throws his head back, his eyes closed, momentarily lost in the sensation.

His voice is shaky, uneven. “I need… I want you. I want you inside me, John.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” John smiles at him, watching Sherlock’s skin flush red with arousal. “Might have to give me a while, though. You did just give me a rather spectacular orgasm, and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

They spend the next hour pressed to each other, kissing, touching, exploring. And John keeps Sherlock keen and needy, stroking him slowly, tonguing his nipples, making him writhe beneath him. And by the time John is hard and ready to go again, Sherlock is restless, sweaty, and desperate for more.

“I have to go get something,” John explains, raising to his knees. “Touch yourself for me. I’ll just be a minute, alright?” Sherlock nods, his hands already taking hold of himself, one stroking his cock slowly and the other reaching lower, slowly rubbing his balls, and John has to simply take a moment before he leaves to watch him. “God, you’re beautiful.”

In the living room, John carelessly digs through his duffel bag, tossing aside random bits of clothing until he’s found what they need. He races back to Sherlock, and the debauched sight of him lying there naked and dutifully touching himself, makes John’s cock twitch with longing. He lifts the bottle in his hand, shaking it playfully.

“I see you came prepared. Bit presumptuous?” Sherlock coyly says, but his eyes are lidded and hopeful, one corner of his lip trapped lightly between his teeth.

“Thank your lucky stars I did,” John grins back at him. He climbs onto the bed, back into Sherlock’s waiting embrace. “I meant what I said before, you know. I didn’t have any expectations… but I did have hopes.” He leans in for a kiss, and their lips open together like seasoned lovers now, fully in tune with each other. Their tongues curl around, drawing little moans and gasps from both of them, and soon their hips are grinding together again with shared, amplifying urgency.

“God, I’ve missed you,” John murmurs between kisses, sliding down to run his tongue along Sherlock’s neck, making him shiver and moan. “I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

“I missed you too,” Sherlock responds, his fingertips clawing along the taut muscles of John’s shoulders and back. “I thought… I would never see you again.”

“I was scared that you’d never want to. That they… What they did to us, to you…”

“Shh.” A hand urges John back towards his face. “They didn’t do this to us,” he whispers, gazing into John’s eyes. _“We_ did this. They may have set the stage, but we chose to act the part. I’ve never doubted that, John. The only thing I doubted was whether I could allow myself to be so vulnerable again as when I thought I’d lost you.”

Those soft, parted lips capture him again. But soon John eases back. He pops the cap of the bottle open, squeezing some of the cold liquid onto his fingers. He pauses, looks up at Sherlock’s face; he has to be sure. “You really want this? Because I promise, I don’t mind—”

“I _want_ you,” he repeats, his expression determined. And John nods once— that’s good enough for him. Sherlock spreads his legs to give him better access, and slowly John slips his fingertips along his perineum, travelling down towards the tight ring of muscle and circling there, delicately, teasingly. And Sherlock’s hands grasp the bedsheets, a small whine escaping his throat. “Have you done this before?” he asks, a mild nervousness creeping into his voice. John chuckles and shakes his head.

“Nope, never. But then, I’ve never really had sex with a bloke before,” he muses. “Fooled around a few times, back in my Army days. To be honest, I never expected to fall in…” He trails off, glancing back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“You love me,” he supplies. John nods.

“Yeah… I do. I love you, Sherlock. I think I did the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Even though I was so hateful,” he says, frowning slightly. His breathing increases as John’s fingers continue to massage over him. “I saw it in you. The way you looked at me… And when I realised I felt the same way, it scared me. I knew what they were going to try to do, so I tried to push you away. I resisted it as long as I could. But you got inside me, despite everything.”

“I’m _about_ to get inside you,” John grins, and Sherlock snorts at the innuendo, but his giggling turns into a gasp when John finally breaches him with his middle finger. John moves slowly, pressing into the impossibly tight space, feeling it clench around his digit. He groans, imagining how this is going to feel when his cock is buried inside him— and that’s yet another idea he never thought in a million years he’d be having about another man.

_You constantly surprise me, John Watson._

Sherlock makes a choked noise when John eventually adds another finger, but he urges John to keep going. He takes his time with it; pushing in, pulling out, twisting and parting his fingers, spreading them in increments. A third finger enters, and Sherlock winces; John can feel him fighting to relax his twitching muscles. Seeking to help ease the process, John closes his fist around Sherlock’s erection and pumps him through it slowly.

Being a doctor, John knows exactly where to find his prostate. And while he’s technically aware that it can be pleasurable to have those sensitive nerves stimulated, he’s been avoiding doing it so far, giving Sherlock time to adjust and feel comfortable being spread open like this. But now that he seems to be enjoying the feeling a little more, John experimentally curls his fingertips up, brushing delicately over the bundle of nerves. And Sherlock’s eyes screw shut, and he moans aloud, arching off the bed and clenching around John’s fingers.

“Bloody hell. That good, is it?” John muses, and does it again.

“It’s… _fuuh—!”_ Sherlock’s words warp into another incoherent moan, and his cock twitches in John’s grip, releasing a fresh trickle of precum over his fingers. John loves making him lose the power of speech. “Oh God, John, please. I’m ready,” Sherlock breathes, writhing beneath him as John continues to stroke both his cock and his prostate, fascinated by how beautifully the body under him is responding. “Please, John… _Fuck me_ already!” he begs.

John doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He gently removes his fingers. Then, hooking Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders and raising his hips off the bed, he positions himself. He takes a moment to drink in Sherlock’s perfectly sculpted form as he lies watching John with expectant lust in his eyes. And he says it again: “You’re beautiful, Sherlock. I love you.”

And then he presses the smooth tip of his cock slowly through the ring of muscle between Sherlock’s cheeks, and John has never felt anything so incredible. The passage is tight, hot around his achingly hard member. Sherlock’s body squeezes him tightly, clenching him erratically, and John has to wonder if he’s doing it consciously. Sherlock’s eyes are screwed closed, his mouth gaping, his breath ragged as John penetrates him. And John is groaning at just how amazingly good it feels as he watches himself slowly sink into the pale body.

Their hips make contact when John manages to seat himself fully inside, and he stays there for a moment, absorbing the heat and pressure. He looks down, seeking approval, and when Sherlock nods slowly he begins to move again, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting in again. He sets a careful, lazy rhythm, watching to make sure Sherlock is still enjoying himself. But he has nothing to worry about, if the needy little sounds spilling from Sherlock’s throat are anything to go by. And as John’s pace picks up, the room is filled with the sounds of wet flesh sliding together and their heightening moans.

After a while, John needs to shift his position a little, his joints strained with the effort of keeping Sherlock’s hips propped in the air. He manages to curl further over Sherlock’s body, pressing his knees further back and angling his hips up. When he resumes thrusting into him, Sherlock’s moans grow louder, his body shuddering with every stroke, and John realises his cock is rubbing against Sherlock’s prostate. And now John desperately wants to see him come apart like this.

John rocks his hips faster, his balls slapping against Sherlock’s ass, and Sherlock stares up at him, unfocused, his face drawn tight in a mixture of far-gone pleasure and exertion. “John, I’m close,” he gasps, his own hands pulling his knees tighter towards him. John reaches down, taking Sherlock’s cock in his hand, pumping it hard and fast. “Oh God… John, _John—!”_ And then John can feel Sherlock’s body begin to clench almost painfully hard around his cock as he comes, coinciding with his own cresting orgasm.

John buries himself hard and deep, stilling as his stomach tightens and his cock begins pulsing rapidly. And Sherlock keens under him, choked noises being drawn out of him by the repeating pressure of John’s cock filling him with heat, his own muscles clamping rhythmically around it as he spills ropes of semen over his own stomach. They moan together, shuddering against each other as the waves ride through them, until gradually it tapers off like the opening of a valve, the pressure being released. And John collapses over Sherlock, gasping for breath against him.

As they recover their senses, Sherlock’s arms wrap around John’s sweat-damp back, holding him close. “I love you, John,” he whispers. “I love you.”


	28. Epilogue (End of Part 1)

And that was it. Sherlock and John settled quickly into their new life together, becoming familiar with the streets of Tok Town, learning their way around a society that was in many ways so familiar, and in others, markedly different to life back in London.

Their security from the threat of HOUNDS demanded the use of fake identities if they were to remain hidden, and that took some getting used to, at least in the beginning. John Watson became Colin Newman, while Sherlock Holmes took up the mantle of Sherrinford Hunt.

“Initials S.H. Very subtle, _Sherry,_ ” John teased, to which Sherlock had insisted that most people would be expecting something much less obvious, and that was exactly why he chose it as his new moniker.

“Some situations call for a deception so outrageous that nobody can see it, even though it’s staring them right in the face. Stupid people expect clever people to always be clever. It's basic psychology, _Colin._ ”

"The reverse is also true," John pointed out. "Bet you never expected me to have to teach you how to apply for a passport."

The remark made Sherlock snort into his cereal. That was the same day they both agreed to never use their alternate names inside the house, under punishment of five minutes of merciless, relentless tickling.

John soon picked up a job at a local Accident & Emergency clinic as a nurse. His background as an army medic was ideal, and he spent the days administering simple treatments, dressing wounds and performing minor surgeries. It didn’t pay too well, but it was a steady occupation at just the right level of challenge to keep him on his toes and occupy his mind. On slower days, he would text Sherlock and tell him about his weirdest case of the day— more often than not, this involved descriptions of the bizarre objects he was required to extract from certain unmentionable orifices. Sherlock didn't always reply, but when he did, it was with razor-sharp wit that never failed to plaster a grin on his face for the rest of the day.

Sherlock, for his part, had decided to set up as a discreet private investigator, having failed to make any headway bullying himself into the good graces of the town’s PD. As a result, they began to see each other less often, as the name of Sherrinford Hunt quietly but surely grew in infamy amongst the locals, with more and more people bringing their cases to his inbox. It wasn’t unusual for John to arrive home at the cottage after a long shift, climb into bed alone, and wake sometime during the early hours, when Sherlock eventually reappeared from whatever mad adventure he’d been pursuing that week, his clothes grimy, and collapse onto the bed only to fall instantly asleep.

John didn't mind it. At least, not right away. They were both doing what they loved, after all. This was what they knew, what John had trained for and what Sherlock had cultivated since childhood. They were busy. Busy was good, he thought, not without a certain measure of doubt at his own conviction.

But what started as a mild inconvenience soon grew into a point of contention, as Sherlock spent less and less time at home. John worried that Sherlock was becoming too well known; that someone, the _wrong_ someone, would eventually recognise him. But more than that, he simply missed him, missed their easy intimacy. It had become a rare occurrence for them both to occupy the house at the same time, and when they did, conversation was often stilted, increasingly impersonal. He began to notice that Sherlock was avoiding John's off-duty hours as often as possible. They began to feel like strangers in their own home, and before they knew it, a strange and unfamiliar distance had yawned open like a chasm between them.

At some point, John began to wonder: Is this it? Is this what we fought so hard for? A new life in New Zealand. New names. New identities. A new beginning… or so they had hoped. Yet, that’s not how it ended. Not by a long shot. And so it didn’t take long, really. Not very long at all, living buried and hidden beneath so many lies, dragging the dead weight of every sad and terrible thing that had brought them together in the first place and then spat them across the world, away from their homes and everything they knew.

Every senseless death, the mind games, the emotional manipulation, the drugs, the starvation, the torture; as much as they tried to, they simply couldn't sweep it all under the rug, pretend that none of it happened. No matter how hard they tried to move on and build something new, just the sight of each other brought with it painful memories of the circumstances under which they'd met and fallen in love. Perhaps love had blinded them to it before, but now it seemed an insurmountable obstacle, an ever-present taint marring their picturesque new life.

Was any of it real, after all?

The foundations were weak and crumbling. John isn't sure which one of them buckled first, but it seemed like both of them struggled more and more to keep it going. Sherlock, in particular, seemed to do everything in his power to remove himself from their faltering relationship, despite numerous suggestions from John, still clinging to the last vestiges of hope and pragmatism, that they needed to talk about it to resolve their problems. But Sherlock always refused. Distance, inevitably, morphed into resentment and hostility.

One warm, humid evening, it all came to a head. The argument was brutal. Words were said. A cup of tea may have been thrown against the wall, and Sherlock switched off his phone and didn’t come home for five days.

On the fifth night, in reply to a flood of messages from John, whose hurt and worry had escalated beyond endurance until he was begging for anything, just one word, to at least know Sherlock was safe and alive, he sent one text.

“I lied. I’m sorry.”


	29. Chapter 29

****

# **Part 2**

**Six months ago**

It’s not the environment itself that wakes him. Not the rough texture of crisp sheets beneath his fingertips, or the ambient hum of fluorescent lighting. Not the rhythmic beeping of cardiovascular monitors, or ventilators pressing air through their bellows, or the odour of antiseptic that clings, stiflingly, to the air; not the quiet, pained murmurings of other patients in the ward, nor the anxious visitors who hover uselessly by their bedsides, waiting for moments of clarity from their loved ones, of glimpses of consciousness. It isn’t even the uncomfortable pinch and pull of the catheters in his arms that finally rouses Mycroft from his analgesic-softened sleep, and urges him, with a growing apprehension, to blink open his eyes for the first time in days.

It’s the footsteps.

Two equally-weighted sets, closing purposefully from the far end of the room. So distinctive, he can easily deduce their identity even in his current, half-waking state. From the audible swagger in their steps, the distinctive sound of expensive leather tapping against the smooth, freshly mopped floor, he knows exactly what demons are come to visit at his bedside. They find him incapacitated, defanged, and defenceless.

Checkmate.

Mycroft watches them approach through a watery haze. They wouldn’t have even needed to bribe their way in; chances are, they funded whatever hospital he’s been stuck in for his recovery. They must have been aware of it the very instant he was admitted. Andrea, bless her, could not have known.

This is how it ends then, their little game. The King lies toppled in defeat, and here come his opponents to sweep his pieces from the board. Well, most of them. He may have lost the war, but at least there was one battle he did win— the most important one, in the end.

The figure whose hands are shoved lazily into his expensive Westwood trouser pockets beams a cracked smile as he approaches. He plucks the medical chart from its hook at the foot of Mycroft's bed, giving it a cursory glance, before discarding it with apparent disinterest.

“Hullo, Mikey. Had a nice sleep?” he enquires conversationally. His eyes fixate on Mycroft's face with a curious malice, making dark promises behind a veil of friendly greeting. The effect is discordant and unnerving. This one is unpredictably dangerous; insanity personified.

“We didn’t think you would pull through. It was touch and go there for a while,” remarks the other one, approaching the opposite side. “Lucky you.”

He speaks in a curious monotone, as if using a language devoid of any context, the words legible but lacking meaning, spoken but not fully understood. His gaze is hollow, but intense. This man was born without a soul, and in physical appearance is identical to his brother down to the very clothes they wear.

Mycroft tries to speak, to offer a token resistance, because he has imagined this eventuality so many times and in so many ways, and there was never a scenario he could think of in which he would simply lie back and lose without making it as troublesome as possible for his enemy to finish the job. But something in his throat shifts when he does, pressing solid against his larynx, and peering down his nose he sees a long plastic tube protruding from his mouth and disappearing off to the side of the bed. There, a machine rhythmically presses air into his lungs, holds it, and releases again with maddening, mechanical precision.

In, tick, tick, tick.

Out, tick, tick, tick.

In, tick, tick, tick.

He fights to control the action manually, but it refuses him, denying even his body’s most base autonomy. His diaphragm spasms in complaint. The twins watch him, watch the expression that must be growing behind the cracks in his crumbling defences. His hands grip the sheets with white-knuckle tension. Stay in control. Stay _in control_.

The one by his ventilator —James, distinguishable from his brother only by the way he speaks— reaches over to the machine and taps a finger on the plastic casing.

“Noisy, isn’t it?” he remarks coolly. “And not strictly necessary in your case, as I’m sure you can feel. You can breathe on your own, the doctors said. But we insisted. He needs his rest, we told them, he must be so tired by now. He’s not used to putting an effort in. Always has someone else to do things for him, you see. Lazy Mycroft. So we’ve taken the liberty of breathing for you for a while. Are you grateful? Nod your head if you're grateful to be breathing, Mycroft. It’s a kindness, from us to you.”

Mycroft glares, but remains motionless, save for the rise and fall of his commandeered respiratory system. He owes the Moriarty brothers a great many things, but gratitude is most certainly _not_ among them.

The mattress dips slightly as the other one, Jim, plants himself on the edge of the bed by Mycroft’s arm and leans close to him. His breath stinks of peppermint.

“It’s a privilege we can revoke at any time, Mikey,” he whispers next to Mycroft’s ear. “If you’re not even going to be thankful, why should we bother being so nice to you? So generous? You could be dead by now, you know. I wanted to do it. I wanted to put even more holes in you. Little ones, hundreds of them, all over you, all over your face and your arms and your stomach and up your arse. I wanted to push nails into your skin and watch what little blood you had left spill out of all those holes like a human colander—”

“That’s enough, dear. I’m sure he can imagine it well enough.” James interrupts him calmly, at which his brother breaks into a low giggle, eyes dancing with genuine delight at the imagery being spun in his own twisted mind. Mycroft’s stomach turns. “That would have been an enjoyable spectacle. I still hope to see it one day. My brother is so wonderfully creative. Don’t you agree, Mycroft? Nod if you think so too. I know that you do. Everyone agrees with us eventually. Nod your head, Mycroft.”

“He isn’t playing today,” Jim complains, his mirth vanishing beneath a layer of visible disappointment. He gives his brother a most pathetic look, to which James hums in agreement.

“Perhaps he needs an incentive,” James replies pragmatically, after some thought. “He thinks that it doesn’t matter what happens to him now. He’s hidden the prize somewhere we’ll never find it, isn’t that right? Clever Mycroft. You were always so clever, weren’t you?” His lips pull into a hollow facsimile of a smile, even as his voice continues in the same, flat tone. “It’s always been so much fun to play with you. But playtime is over now. Nod your head if you are grateful to be breathing, Mycroft. Did you forget?”

Mycroft is fairly certain he knows what will come next, and mentally steels himself for it. This will hurt. They are going to hurt him. But he will not be broken by such pedestrian acts of coercion. Pain can be controlled. Pain is just a signal. Pain is temporary, and death is a single moment, and neither will break him.

_I will not tell you where they are._

James lets out a tired sigh at his stubbornness, and calmly presses a button on the ventilator. The machine powers off. The billow ceases its contractions inside the pressurised case, and at once Mycroft’s chest presses tight and stays locked there, held hostage and empty by the obstruction of the tube blocking his airway. Jim raises a hand to Mycroft’s neck, touching his fingers to the hard lump protruding from the skin. His face lights up with wonder.

“How does it feel?” he murmurs, peering at the fluttering pulse of Mycroft’s carotid artery and stroking delicately along it. “I bet it feels… frightening. To know they aren’t yours anymore. To need them to move, but you can’t, they won’t listen to you because they don’t belong to you anymore. They’re ours. We own your lungs, Mikey. We own _you_.”

_You do not own me._

Slow seconds tick by as oxygen drains gradually from his blood, and his chest aches, his lungs fighting for a breath they cannot draw. Then a soft beep, and suddenly his lungs expand with air as the machine fires back to life.

In, tick, tick, tick, and his veins sing with relief.

Out, tick, tick, tick, and then James stops the machine again, and the pressure, the suffocation builds anew.

They repeat this several times. Each time, the interval between breaths grows longer. Seconds of stillness become minutes. Trapped, choking, his vision swims, sparkles, clouds and then grows dark, and at the brink of losing consciousness, James asks him again: “Are you grateful? Nod your head if you’re grateful, Mycroft.”

And then one breath, just one, and an agony of relief floods Mycroft’s starving brain before the cycle is repeated.

Mycroft fights his body’s instinct for survival as his rationality is eroded, his conviction tested, when every ounce of his flesh begins to cry out in desperation, to grasp at anything, any way to stop this, to bring an end to the suffering.

 _Just nod_ , his mind reasons. _You don’t have to mean it, just do it and they’ll stop!_

And how far would that get him? Fealty isn’t what they’re after, he knows this. That was never the prize they’ve been fighting for all these years. That’s not how all of this started. That’s not what they really _want_.

_Look at what caring has done to you. Is anything worth this? Even him? You should have swallowed your own bitter pill when you had the chance.  
_

The fourth time James stops the machine, he pulls the cord from the wall and pushes the unit aside, and Mycroft loses count of how much time passes before he loses sight of their faces— one dispassionate, observing distantly and without emotion; the other, enrapt eyes watching him as he doesn’t breathe, can’t breath, _must_ breath. Those dark, half-lidded eyes, apparently finding some obscene pleasure in this act of torture, one hand still at Mycroft’s throat, the other hidden beyond his view, and both of them pressing, pressing, _pressing_.

Mycroft knows they won’t stop with just him. He can’t give in. This is about more than just his own life.

“Do you want to know a secret before you die?” James asks when Mycroft’s eyes start to flutter, fighting to close against his will. He doesn’t wait for a response; he knows Mycroft can still hear him. There’s still a few seconds left, but his voice has become something disembodied, floating in the air next to the bed, echoing as if through a long, narrow tunnel. Mycroft’s lungs burn as they twitch and struggle in vain to inflate beneath his ribs. “Jim, do you want to tell him our secret, or should I do it?”

“Oh, let me, please let me do it,” begs his twin feverishly, all ten of his fingers clutching, spreading, squeezing together. His expression becomes a dark mirror of his victim, as Mycroft’s cheeks flush crimson and his features draw tight with pain, and if there is any mercy in the world, Mycroft fadingly thinks, then he will lose consciousness before this creature satisfies his current ambition. But as his lids draw shut, the words pierce through the blackness behind his eyes anyway, and their effect is climactic, within and without.

“We _already know_ where he is,” the voice by his ear breathes. “We know where to find him…” Lips brush against his clammy skin, teeth nipping at it between the pauses. “…And when you’re gone, we’re going to bring him home and show him, show him what we, what we did to you. To, to your body. After…”

The hand at his throat clenches tightly then, and Mycroft feels the other demon lean closer to his face as consciousness finally begins to slip away. “Are you grateful, Mycroft? Tell me. Tell me you’re grateful. Nod your head, Mycroft. Nod. Your. Head.”

_God help me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Non-explicit hinting of sexual gratification gained in the context of inflicting pain on an unwilling victim.
> 
> Truth be told, I'm not entirely decided on how far I want to push this trait of Jim's, but I thought I'd give it a go. I want him to feel absolutely, unpredictably unhinged and dangerous, and I hope it came across as that rather than tittilating or fetishizing. I'd love to hear feedback about this, whether it makes people too uncomfortable. I'm amenable to editing!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Further updates might take a while- I was eager to get back to this, but I'm not quite feeling it at the moment and don't want to force it. Apologies!)

**Four months ago**

“John, wake up. We have a case!”

He startles awake at the noise, one hand already scrambling behind the headboard. For a blind second his mind is operating on pure instinct, a soldier’s training, and lingering PTSD, not to mention an unfortunate array of half-obscured memories of being kidnapped at night. In a hot second, John is staring down the sights of his handgun at a very surprised looking Sherlock. His mind catches up a moment later and the stiffness in his arm melts in relief.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” The gun falls to the mattress with a soft thud. John rubs the sleep from his eyes and peers over to squint at the alarm clock. He groans. “Do you have any idea what time it is.”

“Yes! It’s exactly the perfect time to catch him in the act,” Sherlock says, his eyes already lighting back up with excitement. “I’ve been tracking his movements all week. I know exactly where he is at this very moment, and this _time_ , he won’t be getting away.” Sherlock straightens, lifts his weight off the mattress with aplomb and claps his hands together. “Come on, hurry up. Get dressed. We need to get downtown before he’s done looting the exhibit.”

John has no idea who Sherlock is talking about. It is a feeling he’s been growing used to, being left behind, mentally speaking. Moments like this, Sherlock tends to skip over the necessary step of filling him in, his electrified mind ever locked ten steps ahead of everybody else, obsessively burying itself under so many intricate levels of deduction that he needs to be forcibly dragged back to the surface for John to make any sense of it. It leaves him virtually incapable of conceiving of the idea that John doesn’t just already _know_ everything he needs to.

It can get a little annoying. And more than a little dangerous, when he decides to spring into the room like an over-excitable greyhound and nearly give John a heart-attack in the process.

As John sees it, when they work together from the beginning, everything works great. They automatically fall into sync. He may not have the deductive powers of his genius lover, but he can usually keep up with him as he explains how his mad version of logic leaps from point-A to point-B. But sometimes, he wonders if Sherlock doesn’t even realise it when he starts a new case without him. John has caught him, on more than one occasion, carrying on a conversation with himself as if John was already in the room.

Sherlock had been out all day doing God-knows-what. The house was still empty when John came home from his shift that evening. An abandoned mug of tea sat on the kitchen counter, the only evidence of Sherlock’s presence there for breakfast that morning, however fleeting his reappearance had been. That night, John waited up for him, just in case. There was no telling if Sherlock would decide he needed sleep that day. He often got too caught up in his own little world, and was still offering unsure, one-word answers to John’s texts by the time John gave up and turned in at around midnight.

It hadn’t been more than a couple of hours since John had climbed into his side of a cold bed. Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, then, that Sherlock would choose the _exact_ moment John entered his first REM cycle to magically reappear and summon him up for an adventure.

John presses his head into the pillow and scrunches the sides up to his ears with both arms. “Sherlock, you know I’d love to, but I have an early shift tomorrow. Can’t the police handle a simple break-in?”

Sherlock scoffs. “There’s nothing simple about this one, that’s why it’s so interesting. None of the thefts appeared connected, until last Wednesday when he made one of the most elementary errors you could imagine—”

“That’s great, Sherlock. Really, I’m happy for you, but that doesn’t explain why you can’t just call the police. You’ve done your bit, yeah? It’s their job to catch the guy now.”

“But… Where’s the fun in that?”

John opens his eyes again. He recognises that tone. ‘ _But Jooohhhn,_ ’ whenever Sherlock feigns utter ignorance of why he isn’t getting what he wants at any given moment. It can be equal parts infuriating, and adorable. Sherlock stands rigid and buzzing with energy next to the bed, already dressed up in his Sherrinford clothes for the world beyond their front door. Seeing him like that, looking so different and yet still so quintessentially _Sherlock_ , is another thing John is slowly getting used to. Though, the hair is still a little weird for his tastes.

“You could just join me in here. I’d make sure there’s fun in that.”

In the light of the open doorway, John catches the unguarded smile that slips into place before Sherlock can school himself. John reaches out a hand in silent offering and watches the internal struggle play out like theatre in Sherlock’s eyes. Bed with John, or wrapping up an exciting case? Even John knows that's a tough call. Perhaps he's being a little unfair, but he can't help it; he misses Sherlock every moment they aren't together.

Eventually Sherlock shakes his head slowly, presses his lips in an apologetic smile and employs his most effective puppy-dog eyes. John can already feel his resolve wavering. Damn it, he's a grown man. That really shouldn’t be as effective as it is.

“Come on. The other day you were saying how much you enjoy us working cases together. You said we didn’t do it often enough.”

“I did, but—”

“And I agreed with you, and promised that the next time a really big, interesting case came along, we can do it together. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember, but—”

“Well?” He spreads his hands wide. John has visions of sleepwalking through his next surgery and accidentally sewing somebody’s leg to the table. But he is right. These opportunities really don’t come along as often as he would like, they’re always both so busy. If only it wasn’t the middle of the bloody night. Sherlock’s timing is impeccably awful. But John couldn’t go back to sleep now if he wanted to, knowing that if he let him go alone, Sherlock would be off tackling a potentially dangerous criminal without any backup. There’s no stopping the man once his mind is set.

And it’s just one night, John supposes. He has pulled all-nighters before. He’s not overly keen on coffee, but a few extra cups during the day will keep him going. Sherlock looks ready to bolt out the door.

“Alright,” John sighs, yawning and flinging back the duvet. “You win. Give me a sec to throw on some clothes.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, the pair of them are pelting down a side-street in pursuit of their fleeing target. John is a few steps behind, keeping pace, his Sig pressing into the small of his back. At Sherlock’s signal he’ll know when to break off, to duck down an adjacent alleyway and come around the other side of their route, trapping their quarry in a pincer movement. It’s a tactic they have already used to great effect before, so in-sync with each other’s movements that the coordination comes naturally, needs no practice. They work beautifully together. John was _born_ for this.

This was an excellent decision, John thinks in hindsight. Better than sex, in some ways. Or perhaps this _is_ sex, just in a different context. He feels alive, every instinct and muscle tuned to the thrill of the chase, and he knows Sherlock must be enjoying this too, just _look at him;_ flying across the ground on long, powerful legs, black denim jacket flapping its wings behind him like a bat in his wake. The open collar of his shirt revealing a long expanse of creamy neck, tendons thick and straining with effort. Feet thumping rhythmically against concrete as he rounds another corner, lithe as a fox chasing a rabbit through an urban forest. John can’t help stare at him appreciatively as Sherlock follows the thief’s trajectory up onto some bins and vaults over a fence in one graceful movement— a stunning, sensual creature, revelling in his element.

Yes, this is very much like sex, he muses. And the climax is going to be amazing.

Out of sight, there’s a dull crack and a yelp of surprise, and John’s heart hammers in his chest as he sprints forward, yanking the gun from his waistband and flicking off the safety. He sees the thief disappearing down another alley as he makes it over the fence a little less gracefully than his partner. Sherlock scrambles to pick himself up from the floor a few steps ahead.

“What happened? You okay?” John says, panting to catch his breath. He jogs up to where Sherlock is wobbling to his feet, and has to grab his arm to keep him upright.

“Bastard was waiting for me,” Sherlock gasps, grimacing, brushing dirt from the back of his thighs. “Slammed my head into the wall. I’m alright, though. Come on. I’ll take that way, you head around—”

“We’re doing nothing of the sort. Come on, let me take a look at you.”

“I said I’m fine,” he insists. John digs a pocket torch out of his coat and flicks it on, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s dyed-blond hair in search of a wound. Sherlock turns away and begins pacing in frustration, his voice bouncing up and down the narrow alley walls. “I should have anticipated it. Stupid! We _had_ him, John. He knew he was about to be cornered.”

“Yeah, he did. Hey, sit down for a minute.”

“There’s no time! He can’t be far, we can still—”

“I’m serious, sit down, love. You’re bleeding.” John rubs his wet fingertips together in the light of the torch. Sherlock waves it away.

“It’s just a scratch. Head injuries always look a little over-dramatic, you know that.”

“That’s true, but I still want to be sure. Sit, please?” John puts on his most persuasive smile, urging him gently down with his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Reluctantly, Sherlock eases himself down to sit, grumbling and touching the back of his head for personal confirmation. His enthusiasm for the chase thankfully seems to be deflating.

“Let’s not take any chances with that magnificent brain of yours, eh? I think you should get that looked at down at the A&E. You might have a concussion.”

“Oh for God’s sake, John.”

“ _Colin,_ ” John corrects, casting a wary look above at the darkened windows overlooking the alley. “Sherry… Please? For me. I’ll worry if you don’t.”

“I don’t need a hospital, I was just dazed. It’s already passing. See? It’s nothing to worry about. I feel fine.”

“Then will you come home, then, and let me dress it? You can’t just leave it like that.”

Sherlock casts a wistful look in the direction of his lost quarry. John crouches by him and squeezes his hand. He understands the sense of loss his mad, brilliant lover must be feeling, to have come so close to the prize only to have it slip through their fingers. Just as Sherlock trusts him to know when to cut their losses and take care of what’s more important at the moment. He eventually nods, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, and they make their way out into the open streets.

 

* * *

 

John fusses at the tightly wrapped bandage, making doubly sure of the quality of his handiwork as Sherlock stares glumly across the kitchen. Bloodied clothes lie discarded in the laundry basket in favour of a flannel dressing gown and slippers. Satisfied with his work, John steps back and checks his watch.

“Right, you should go get some rest. I’ll check on you every half-hour. I need to call into work and tell them I won’t be in today. I'm looking after you.”

Sherlock brushes shower-damp curls away from his eyes. He looks up at John. “You were right. It would’ve been stupid to keep chasing him. I’m glad you were there to stop me.”

A soft smile crinkles his eyes, and John leans down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Sherlock hums appreciatively, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and drawing him closer to sit on his lap.

“Me too, love. Don't get me wrong, that was a lot of fun. Much rather be running around town with you than pulling another TV remote out of someone’s arse, any day of the week.”

Sherlock bursts into giggles. The effect is contagious.

“I’d prefer that too, if we could afford it.”

“I assumed we could, until I saw our bank balance.” John’s eyes fall to the stack of bills on their kitchen counter. “If we ever go back to London, I’ll have a few choice words for that brother of yours. He promised enough to keep us comfortable for at least a year.”

“Well, you know Mycroft,” Sherlock replies, laying his head on John’s chest. They fall into comfortable silence for a while, John stroking Sherlock's hair absently while they hold each other. Moments like this have become too rare, lately. Too precious. John is loath to ruin it, but he has to ask again or Sherlock might never think to speak of it.

“Speaking of your brother…” he begins.

“Let’s go to bed,” Sherlock says, lifting his head, and John dearly wishes he could read such guarded expressions.

“Still no word?” he tries, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything else, just kisses him on the lips and slowly lifts them to standing. John allows himself to be guided back to bed.

 

* * *

 

When John wakes again some time in the early afternoon, Sherlock is already gone. His side of the bed is cold to the touch. There may have been a parting kiss, he can't quite remember. Something half-woke him, but it might have been a dream.

One new text message from Sherlock reads, ' _Following up new lead. Not letting him get away that easily. Might be home tonight, but can't promise anything. Love you. xxx_ '

He shouldn't let it worry him, how quickly Sherlock flings himself back into his work. It's a blessing, really. Most of their income comes from it. Sherlock's earnings far outweighs his own on any given week, but only because he never slows down, never seems to take a break. John doesn't think he could do, even if he tried. When Sherlock spends too long in the house —and by 'too long,' that means the span of a few hours, at most— he starts getting antsy. His mood sours. If John didn't know any better, he'd say he acts like he did when he was still addicted to Ketamine, though that's all in the past now, thankfully.

Not even a marathon of amazing, mind-blowing sex can calm him down for long— and that's a _proven_ fact.

No, Sherlock loves him, that much is obvious. He's not drifting away, he's just busy. But John can't help the doubts that nag incessantly at the back of his mind. Their ordeal with HOUNDS has made him clingy, he thinks. Maybe even a little paranoid. It's not healthy to feel this way; possessive and madly in love and distrustful of his own feelings and quietly terrified that Sherlock's could change at any moment, like the turning of the wind. They need to figure out a way to spend more time together. They need to build a history of memories of closeness and love that aren't marred by a backdrop of emotional and physical manipulation.

As his therapist might have once said, they need to rebuild the context of their relationship. That sounds stuffy enough to be real advice, doesn't it? Maybe it could work.

Perhaps, if it continues to grow in scope, John could quit the hospital and they could become joint partners in Sherlock's business. But on further thought, that wouldn't work. John is no detective. That Sherlock ever brings him along to cases at all is nothing more than a kindness. He can't possibly do anything but slow the man down and get in his way. His tagging along last night is probably what lead to the thief's escape and Sherlock's injury. Sherlock had to slow his pace, make sure John wasn't left behind. What was the point of him coming along at all, really? It's no wonder Sherlock conducts most of his business away from home, away from where John might stick his nose in.

On the other hand, it did lead to an injection of some some much-needed intimacy. But it was all too fleeting. The cost was too high.

No, he can't keep doing this. It isn't fair on either of them. It isn't perfect, this new life together, but it is what it is and he should be thankful, really, given all they've overcome just to make it this far. He resolves to be more supportive in future, and bellyache less about his own need for a cuddle now and then. It's a small price to pay.

A new nurse joins his shift a few days later. Her name is Mary. They strike up easy conversation during long hours of stitching and bandaging. And maybe this is all he needed: more friends to keep his spirits high when Sherlock is away and the world seems to be dragging along a little too slowly in his absence.


End file.
